


Checkpoint Charlie

by snogandagrope



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Body Worship, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship/Love, Frottage, M/M, Morning Sex, Mutual Masturbation, New Orleans, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, References to Drug Use, References to Prostitution, Resolved Romantic Tension, Rimming, Romance, Shopping, Tickling, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vacation, sweary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/pseuds/snogandagrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case in New Orleans might just tip John and Sherlock over the edge they have been walking since Sherlock's return.  (It's a love story, in New Orleans. Music, food, and debauchery!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first all by myself fic, so YES! Please! concrit. But it really does take a village to birth a fic, so: Plenty of love and thanks to [MojoFlower](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MojoFlower/pseuds/MojoFlower) who sat with me in GoogleDocs in January when I banged the majority of this out - giggling in all the right places and letting me know that **smile** should not be used 89 times. Comma wrangling and general clarity on my crazy author's voice love to [Fightyourdragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fightyourdragon/pseuds/Fightyourdragon). Aaaaand joining us at ch 3 is [Jennybel75](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennybel75/), you beauty!! Love beyond measure to [mistyzeo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo) for last minute eyes on chapter 5, beating my dangling participles and wonky phraseology into shape. Chapter 7 thanks go to [Batik](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/), [thetimemoves](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut), [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/), and [chucksauce](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/)! Thank you, beautiful humans. Y'all are fucking awesome!!
> 
> I got the idea for this story reading [The Bone Fiddle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/573857) by htebazytook & Vulgarweed. In the notes, Vulgarweed says: 'This was the result of a challenge to take a canon set in a region you're not from, and set it in a region you are from.' So here I am, taking our boys on a trip to my home. 
> 
>  A/N 4.14.2014: retroactive cleanup is in effect, thank you [chucksauce](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/profile), for your helpful suggestions! I've also inserted some pics, I hope they add to, and not detract from, the story.

"Thank you John Hiatt," the bartender says under her breath as the last of the ‘still out from last night, coked up, drunk, and belligerent with it assholes’ stagger out the door. Weekend day shifts at Checkpoint Charlie are a challenge; you never know what vibe you are going to walk into, but you don’t last long as a bartender if you don’t enjoy a good time. This was _not_ a good time.

She has honed her _Acoustic Sunrise_ playlist after handling months of last night’s bad coke, dubious X, Red Bull shooters, and all combinations of the three. Refugees from other bars, washed up at the end of Decatur. This particular group gets half of _Slow Turning_ and most of _Led Zepplin III_. She makes small talk with Rick, the graveyard bartender, as they count out their tills; she makes a new pot of coffee. He sits down with the stragglers and joins their fun while she finishes setting the bar up for the dayshift.

“God! What is this boring shit?” one of them calls out while she finishes opening up all the windows and shutters, letting light in and giving the cavernous space the opportunity to air out. She can almost smell the coke and throws a glance across all the tables to see if they’ve missed a line or two. She meets Rick’s eye and smirks a little, continuing to ignore the group while she rearranges the well bottles, washes off the bar mats, changes out the dish water. This crowd was certainly not eating, so the flat grill and prep station in front of the short end of the bar is tidy enough. She walks back to the fooseball table, wiping down the arcade consoles for Galaga and Mrs. Pac Man, looks into the laundrette and breathes a sigh of relief that no one is passed out back here.

 _Slow Turning_ has worked its magic, finally. She watches the remnants of last night's crowd all pile out the door, graveyard bartender included, as 'Feels Like Rain' comes on.  
  
She breathes a sigh of relief and takes a deep swallow of her coffee, considering whether or not to add a bit of Jameson to it when the doors are pushed open: two men in the middle of a heated conversation. British. _Tourists! Thank you!_ The dayshift has started!  
  
“This is ridiculous. How are we supposed to gather any information if everything is closed? I was under the impression that this city never sleeps.”  That voice is equal parts whining petulance, sex, and dark chocolate.  
  
“I’m pretty sure that’s New York, this is New Orleans,” comes the smiling reply as the men walk through the corridor of poker machines and fully into view. The shorter man is wearing a hideous check shirt and jeans, while Delicious Voice is wearing a suit? _Jesus, he is going to be dying in that within the hour._  
  
“Welcome to Checkpoint Charlie, gentlemen,” she says. Friendly, polite, open. She lays out the bev naps at the dip in the bar that will put them closest to her.  
  
“Someone’s trying to be clever,” Delicious Voice declares, looking her straight in the eye _and shit. He is fucking stunning._  
  
“Owner is German,” she replies “and besides, if you’re staying at the Frenchman and you didn’t come left first, you already know it fits.”  
  
“Someone _is_ trying to be clever,” Delicious Voice almost purrs as he takes off his suit jacket and hangs it on the back of the barstool. _Voice of Sex, that._  
  
She can do nothing but blink, and can feel the smile on her face quivering between a smirk and a grin as she looks between them. The shorter man is looking around and happiness on his face, breathing deeply and there is a moment of panic: _can he smell the leftover drug funk in the air?_  
  
“Bit different from my day, but not really,” he says and Oh! she knows that look, that’s good times had here. His eyes are lit up with memories, _and shit._ Incredibly Average in a Hideous Shirt just morphed into Surprisingly Hot.  
  
“Welcome back to the Land Time Forgot.” She can’t help the grin that is now completely unfurled as she reassess Surprisingly Hot. “I’m Nic, what can I get y’all? Coffee is fresh, or maybe my signature Mary?”  
  
Both men twinge at that, but differently. Voice of Sex flashes resentful and regret while Surprisingly Hot flashes something more complicated that she can’t parse immediately. “Coffee it is!” She says with a breath. As she turns to go to the end of the bar, the look that passes between the two is... intense.  
  
'Tangerine' begins to play and a wash of calm floats among the three of them. Whatever _that_ was triggered with ‘Mary’ disperses and she sets the coffee cups on the bev naps. “Half and Half? Milk?” she asks, nudging a sugar caddy closer to them.  
  
“We’re good,” replies Surprisingly Hot. “Is the grill on? Do you have anything breakfasty?”  
  
“Always and not really... Menu is strictly bar food. Burgers, standard fried things." She gestures up at the placard over the grill. "Though, if you don't tell anyone, I could throw together a scramble for you. If you like.”  
  
Voice of Sex grumbles ‘Not hungry’ which gets him the side eye from Surprisingly Hot. She’s going to have to try and get their names again, because this is getting ridiculous.  
  
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account, coffee is fine for now.” Surprisingly _(jesus!)_ Hot says kindly.  
  
“I’m Sherlock, this is John,” Voice of Sex announces and her eyes shoot to his, _fucking christ, what color is that anyway?_  
  
“Your internal names for us are becoming an issue, obviously.” Voice of Se- Sherlock rumbles as he smirks at her from under his lashes.  
  
“Well, y’all can stop being all sorts of appealing, anytime now,” she tosses over her shoulder as she drags up the pan and begins pulling out eggs, onion, cheese... hm, and tomato. “No bacon, or sausage. That ok?”  
  
John huffs out a laugh that is closer to a giggle as he says, “That’s fine. Whatever you like. And Sherlock, stop terrorizing our source of food and beverage.”  
  
“What for? She’s clearly enjoying it. Us. Her internal dialogue. She went to some effort to clear out the remnants of last night’s debauchery and is rather pleased with how her morning is shaping up -”  
  
“Cut it out, Sherlock. You want to start gathering information, don’t alienate our first opportunity.”  
  
“‘S ok.” She's behind the bar in front of the grill, dicing sliced tomatoes and onions on the cutting board, looks up and meets Surpris- John’s eyes. Seriously, deceptively, attractive. The strength in his shoulders, the way he holds his back. Her eyes flicker to his hands and then over to his friend’s buttons, hanging on for dear life, bless them. Her gaze skates up the brave buttons and she meet his knowing smirk with one of her own. “He’s completely right.” She turns and pulls together this fucking scramble, _and please don’t suck, because seriously._ _I could enjoy a few hours with these two._  
  
When she turns back with the pan to plate up the scramble, they have a map out, one of the toursity ones from the hotel. Heads together, talking quietly. She can’t help but bite her lip at the various kinds of trouble these two could be up for. Together. Separate. Impulsively, she decides on one plate, three forks and doesn’t realize she’s still biting her lip as she puts the plate down between them until Sherlock says, in a perfect blend of curious and outraged: “Are all of you oversexed? Is it a job requirement?”  
  
John chokes on his coffee and Nic startles into peals of laughter. “I did tell you to stop being all sorts of appealing, and no. But it does help,” she says with a wink and tops off her coffee. She reaches for the Jameson and pours a short shot in, then gestures with the bottle towards their mugs.  
  
“Yes! Please. Both of us.” John says at the bottle and then digs into the scramble. She can’t tell if he is embarrassed for her or for his friend, so she says, “Can’t fault the man for speaking honestly.”  
  
He looks up, surprised. “That’s not the typical reaction.”  
  
“I’m not typical,” she smirks. “Is the scramble all right? I could do some fake Texas toast, if you want?”  
  
“Toast would be great, thanks, and you really aren’t. Typical, I mean,” at her questioning  eyebrow he continues, “tattoos, face piercings, underwear as outerwear...”     
  
She laughs as she puts the buttered sandwich bread on the grill, “Nope, no piercings. I do have a nice corset collection, though.” _And damn me for saying that,_ as she glances over at Sherlock and images of that white as milk torso bound up in a corset leap across her brain. There is mischief in his eyes as he meets hers over his coffee cup, and he just... blinks.  
  
There’s a strangled sort of cough from John and her eyes snap to him in time to register his flush as he drags his eyes up from Sherlock’s waist, bounce off that blink and he digs back into his scramble.

She brings the toast over and picks up a fork, taking a bite of the scramble for herself. Looking at both of them, it’s hard to figure. They could be together, but it really doesn’t matter. _Flirty Bartender is easy when you have delicious British men sitting in front of you. Besides, it’s Saturday morning. Who knows what kind of trouble these two will be into by the time 6pm rolls around._  
  
'Bron-Y-Aur Stomp' starts to play and it’s disconcerting. Apparently they’ve passed close to an hour. Nic's eyes flick to outside: clear, sunny and bright. There are a few people on the street, and the junk vendors are just starting to open their doors. She could lose these guys and soon, which really would be a shame. She takes another bite of the scramble and says: “All right? More coffee? Drink?”  
  
John looks over to Sherlock and down at the map they have moved to the side. “Money for the jukebox,” he says reaching for his wallet.  
  
She waves him off, “There’s still nine free songs on there. Make yourself at home” _Thank fuck, play them all!_

She tries to guess what he is going to play. She’s brought in some of her own disks, to balance out Rick’s NIN, Steve’s Skinny Puppy, and Emily’s eclectic mix of hippie and dance pop. She goes ahead and refill their coffees, leaving room and looking at Sherlock as she touches the bottle of Jameson. He looks over at John, who is flipping through the collection before making his selections, and then back at her. With a quirk of his lips he nods at the Jameson.  
  
“So. First day in. What kind of day is it? What trouble are y’all up to?” she asks, her eyes going from Sherlock’s to the map and back again. _What the hell is with them, anyway?_ _Grey? Blue? Green? It’s like they absorb and reflect whatever it is he is looking at. Beautiful fucker._  
  
“Working vacation,” he rumbles as he takes a sip of his coffee.

 _Shitfuck. Is this sexy asshole doing that on purpose?_ “Well...” she starts. She’s curious, she can’t help it. She’s pretty sure she knows what house that is on Elysian Fields they have circled, though they really shouldn’t know the address, and then a house in the Bywater, with some dots scattered around the Quarter. “Gathering information on, what, exactly? I might be able to help.”  
  
John’s making his selections, and happiness just breaks out across her face as the Drifter’s 'Nobody But Me' starts to play. Yes, these guys need to stay. Sherlock quirks a quick smile and the look on his face as he watches John at the jukebox is undeniably fond, but he comes back to himself quickly, his expression blanking on a blink and he taps the map, the house on Elysian Fields. “Information about a woman who works, worked, here.”  
  
“Jack’s?” He’s surprised and she huffs out a laugh. “Not typical, remember?”  
  
He makes an approving humming noise and she just wants to bash his head in, or climb him like a tree. “How well do you know Jack’s employees?” he asks.

 _Damn this man, he is looking at me like he can read my mind, and that is not good at all._  
  
“I know some of them. Not all, obviously.” She takes a step back, leaning on the liquor shelves, putting some space between herself and this delicious, sexy, asshole mindreader.  
  
“Why obviously?” he asks, eyebrow arching.  
  
“I don’t know what kind of impression I gave you, but I certainly don’t know every stripper in four clubs, as well as...”  
  
“The whorehouse,” he deadpans.  
  
“Sherlock! Christ!” John calls from the jukebox as he takes the few steps back to his barstool. “I know there’s nobody else in here but us, but come on.  Show some discretion.” She’s pretty sure she hears him mumble, ‘For once,’ as he slides in next to Sherlock. “Sorry,” he says, looking up at her and the look on his face! Resigned, mortified, angry, and, yes, just a drop of giggle in there. _Bless him._  
  
She sees that drop of giggle and raises it a grin, “S’all right, can’t fault the man for speaking honestly. Remember?” She uncrosses her arms and looks over by the coffeepot. “Y’all mind if I smoke?”  
  
“Please!” jumps out of Sherlock’s mouth faster than John can start to say anything. She comes back with both packs, her battered Zippo sitting on top.  
  
“Flat, green are Nat Sherman Hint, if you like menthol. The grey are American Spirit, Perique blend.”  She waits to see which one Sherlock takes. She’ll take the other.  
  
“Language barrier, delightful,” Sherlock murmurs as he wraps his hand around the Spirits first - _is there anything about this man that is unattractive??_ He brings them to his nose and sniffs, then does the same to the Nats, which net a delightful, delicate shudder. He pulls out a Spirit and flicks the Zippo with a gesture of pure muscle memory. The lighter is old and temperamental, but he only takes one flick. He draws the smoke in, and in, and in, _and fucking christ those buttons!_  He exhales slowly and looks at her in what is, apparently, pretty close to orgasmic bliss.  
  
 _Jesus._  
  
She takes a Nat and lights it up, running her tongue over the mint left on her lips; she offers it to him as Sam Cooke’s 'Bring it on Home to Me' starts to play. She looks over at John, who is looking at Sherlock like he is some fantastic dessert and “Well, aren’t you the soulful, romantic lover?” just falls out of her mouth.

Sherlock is savoring another drag, licking at the mint on his lips, as he turns and looks at John. And that look? Between a blink it flickers from curious to frankly assessing. Heated. She almost clears her throat but the eye sex is exquisite and _please gods don’t let anyone walk in here because I’m about to see something glorious._  
  
Except she doesn’t. John blinks and clears his throat and reaches for his coffee.  
  
She is internally screaming: _What the fuck?!_

Sherlock is still assessing, but now there’s new aspects to it that she can see bouncing around inside his head like a sparkler. Like existing data has been re-ordered and he's experiencing a flash of new understanding. He passes her back the Nat, which looks ridiculously tiny in his hand. She puts it down in the ashtray and lights up a Spirit. _Christ, these two._  
  
Obviously the moment is passed, because Sherlock says: “So, the whorehouse... I’d make a comment about your estranged relationship with your Masonic father, but that really doesn’t factor in, I don’t think.”  
  
“Christ,” she says on an exhale with a head shake, but she can’t help but be appreciative of the intuitive bastard, so. “No, my father has no idea I virtually ran an escort agency last year. We haven’t spoken in two. He doesn’t approve of my life choices.” She takes a long drag of her smoke and exhales forcefully. “Waste of a college education.”  
  
“Not much you can do with Liberal Arts, though, is there? You tried middle management at two different businesses before starting with the, brothel.” After that pause, the word sounds like all sorts of sensual acts performed with melted chocolate. Maybe honey. “Why did you leave?”  
  
“Middle management, stultifying. Escort agency, was too good at it. The manager got to feeling threatened, and used the fact that I wasn’t one of his coke whores to convince Jack I might be a risk, not an asset.”  
  
He made that humming sound again, “So there _are_ drugs involved. I told you it was a possibility, John.”  
  
“Right, forgive me if I’m not too thrilled over the thought of you investigating a coke dealing madam, um, mister.” He looks up at Nic, “Pimp? What do you call a male madam, anyway?”  
  
“Mostly by name, actually. But you’re not getting that from me without the full story. So go on, spill. Time for a drink?” She looks from one to the other. They are comfortable. The music, some food in their bellies, good coffee with a couple slugs of good whiskey, and Sherlock is finishing her Nat, left in the ashtray. She has never wanted another hour of no customers more in her life.  
  
Sherlock looks at John, and there is that assessing thing again, but there is a heavy note of calm about him that feels really new. John, however, is in the zone. He is one of those lucky travellers that can find home wherever he goes, or his last time here was just that good. He’s back, life is good; right now is, good.

“You asked me, earlier. Tell me,” Sherlock leans into the bar, looking at her, reading her mind and looking pretty fucking pleased with what he found there. “What kind of day is it, Nicole?”  
  
She starts a bit, because _I know I didn’t introduce myself that way_ , and holy fucking hell, that voice.

And then her perfect morning is over. A construction crew piles in the door, raucous. Their work day is done and the weekend starts right now.  

She looks Sherlock over and with a cock of her head looks John over as well. “Depends on what trouble y’all are up to, really? Think about it while I settle these guys.” All of whom have crowded in at the bar in front of the grill. She swallows her frustration at their disruption, as delightful and intriguing as these Brits are, she is here to serve. She flips out coasters like she’s dealing cards and asks them: “Pitcher of Amber?”


	2. Chapter 2

The construction crew wants burgers and a pitcher so Nic slaps on the patties and looks over at the boys.  Men.  But really, boys. They have their heads together again, the map back between them and Otis Redding’s ‘Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay’ is playing.  John has this microscopic sway going on that barely brushes his shoulder with Sherlock’s on the down beat. _Jesus._ These two. _Killing me!!_  She dashes Tony Chachere’s and celery salt onto the burgers and walks over to the boys. Men. Them. Sherlock looks up and asks, “Have you decided, Nicole? What kind of day it is?”  
  
She starts pulling the pitcher and quips, “And have you decided, Sherlock, what kind of trouble y’all are up to, today?” she thinks, _I seriously can’t help it. He is delicious and he reads my mind and fuck him for trying to talk at me like his voice is a weapon. Of sex. Dammit!!_ She puts on as much of a stern face as she can muster and says, “If this smells good to you, tell me now. It would be a fat pain in my ass if y’all want burgers after I finish with these and scrub the grill.”  
  
John is watching this back and forth like it is the most entertaining thing and maybe he should sell tickets. He says, “It does smell good, but I’m feeling... I don’t want to waste -” he cuts himself off right quick.  
  
Laughing, Nicole tells him, “You feel glorious, life is good, and you don’t want to waste the day in a bar. Commendable. What kind of trouble then? Y’all going to run around ‘investigating’ on your own or you want my Best Day Ever suggestion list?”  
  
Sherlock cuts in, “On our own, as in, there is another option?”  
  
“Well, yes,” she says as she walks back and gives those guys their pitcher and glasses, flips the burgers on the grill, puts cheese on, places the buns down one side of the grill and comes back. “You tell me the story and if there is anything I can help you with, I could take you around, meet people, whatever.” She doesn’t wait for a reply, just walks to the grill, plates up the burgers and settles the crew. After they are square, she walks back to Sherlock and John, heads together, _fucking adorable shits_. 'These Arms of Mine' is on. _Oh, John._ He is doing a chair dance so slow it might not actually be happening. But she can see the rhythm there, where he pauses on the beat. He is dancing, in his head, with Sherlock. Not a doubt on that one.  
  
She pours two Jameson and sodas into ‘go’ cups, squeezes a sliver of lemon, and places them deliberately in front of the men, one at a time. Eye contact, check. John’s eyes are navy blue. _How is that possible?_ Fucker. He is so in the zone a hurricane could blow the Ringling Brothers through the joint and he would still be swaying to the music playing in his head. Her look says: _I love you, you surprisingly hot creature, and your love for the beautiful asshole only makes me love you more._ She turns to the beautiful asshole, who, of course, _is reading my fucking mind_ and is, oh, surprise! delighted. He has a thin ring of amber going on around his pupil, _I still don’t know what the fuck color his eyes are,_ but he looks pleased and that’s all that really matters.  
  
“Ok. Y’all are going to take these delicious beverages and walk your happy asses up the street,” she says with a chin nod in the direction of Decatur, “till you get to the Central Grocery. Problem with green olives? Either of you?” Looks of _No_ , them to each other, them to her. “Ok! Central Grocery, order a muffuletta, to go. You’ll probably be in line for a minute, so browse, but don’t buy anything else yet, all right?” Looks of _All right_ , them to each other, them to her, both the men are starting to smile. John’s is bigger.  
  
“Now, you should still have some of your drink left, but if you don’t there is a regular grocery just up the way, go in and get a couple of beers, Sapporos will work nicely. Don’t buy anything else.” John is grinning from ear to ear. The taking orders thing is working well, or like minds, either way. “Now take your muff and your beverages and walk up to Jackson Square where you can go right, into the square, or cross the street and take the Moonwalk over to the river. If you do that, go ahead and read the sign, get a bit of local culture in you for chrissakes. You’re on vacation.”  
  
 _I’ve got them,_ she thinks to herself. John is giggling and Sherlock is actually smiling, _not at me, at John._ “Enjoy your scenic lunch, people watch, river watch, whatever. There will be music of some sort,” she winks at John, “small brass band, calliope, zydeco.”  Sherlock looks scandalized, _I’m not sure if it is the calliope or the zydeco that threw him,_ but John is still in so it’s all good.  
  
“Enjoy the beautiful day and your refreshing beverage and your local flavor sandwich. Enjoy it all afternoon. If you get to craving a sweet, you can come down the river side, there’s the Cafe du Monde and there are praline shops, any of them are delicious. Keep coming down that way and you will come to the French Market, touristy junk, local artists, fresh fruit and veg, don’t buy anything yet, it will all be there tomorrow.  
  
“If you make your way back here before 6, you can tell me your story and we can take it from there. If you don’t, I’m here tomorrow same time and there is a fantastic steak to be had right up the street here at Port of Call, or you can duck around to Frenchman Street and have dinner and listen to jazz, or other things. Plenty of good music to be had on Frenchman.”  
  
She looks over at the construction crew, and of course, they need another pitcher.  
  
She comes back and looks at them, really looks at them. They are here, ‘investigating’ a girl who ‘works/worked’ as an escort. They know about the drugs and seem rather unfazed by both. They don’t feel like cops, but who the fuck knows, really. _I might be so in love with these two that I could get a whole lot of people in trouble._ Good people, most of them. Single mothers, girls putting themselves through college, one trans who is working her way through his gender reassignment. No guys right now, well, except for Steve and his brother, and that would be a serious drugs charge, of course there’s the pandering.*  And, obviously, the owner, Jack. _I really should resent him for letting me go, but I don’t. I understand why he did what he did and if I feel any animosity at all it’s toward Steve, but I don’t. So. Basically, I’m curious. No harm in seeing why they are here and if I can help them; if I still want to help them after I hear their story, I will._  
  
John looks up and meets her eyes. His songs are over and fucking Ted Nugent is on. Motorhead will probably be next. The whole vibe has changed, but they are still in their bubble of bliss.  
  
Sherlock stands; John looks over at him and does the same, pulling out his wallet, although Nic hasn’t given them a bill. “Thank you, Nicole, for letting us know what kind of day it is.” Sherlock’s voice thrums across Ted Nugent like it isn’t even playing. “We’ll be seeing you.” He picks up his drink and starts out the door. John picks up his, and with a small wave, and a grin, follows Sherlock out into the light.  
  
She stands there, spellbound for a minute. John’s Motown, the sheer love and devotion of those songs, she’s almost vibrating with it. She moves to clear off their spot, sees the $50 that John left on the bar, and knows he is still feeling it, too.

  
~~~  
  
Sherlock is standing at the corner when John comes out the door, wincing a little in the bright. “The Market is just over there, if you want to stop and get some cheap sunglasses, Sherlock”  
  
“Not necessary. ‘Local flavor sandwich’?”  
  
“How did she do that, know exactly what I wanted to do with my day? It was like she knew exactly what I was feeling, about everything.”  
  
Sherlock hums in agreement, “More than you know, possibly. She observes.” They start walking up Decatur, “Thank you, John, for suggesting we go in there. She could be rather useful.”  
  
John huffs out a laugh, “She already was! Fantastic music, decent brekkie, whiskey and coffee, I haven’t been this relaxed in ages. She read my mind with the lunch plans -”  
  
“She was cursing me for doing the same to her, I suppose it’s only fair that she turned it around on one of us.”  
  
“What? I missed that.” John has a puzzled look on his face, the one that says _I know I had a few, but I’m not drunk, am I?_  
  
“She observes. She observed me, observing her. Of course she didn’t say it out loud. She’s brash but she does the whole social interactions thing much better than I do.”  
  
“You just can’t be arsed. I like that, most of the time. Some of the time.” John’s sentences are getting closer to mumbles as each one falls out of his mouth. _I need to be shutting up now. Right._  
  
Sherlock’s eye is caught by the junk shop across the street and he begins to pull John over. “No, Sherlock! ‘Local flavor sandwich’!” and he pulls Sherlock back up onto the pavement. “We’re here as long as it takes. We have all the time in the world to junk shop. Nic was right, we are not buying anything but food and drink today.”  
  
“Yes, she was. Right.” Sherlock says this looking up at the second storey apartments, hanging baskets of ferns, flowers, Mardi Gras beads, more Mardi Gras beads, a flag of Italy, some naked guy who really has no business being naked. He takes a sip of his drink. “This is good.”  
  
“It is, isn’t it? Not still mad at me for accepting this case from Mycroft are you then?”  
  
Sherlock grumbles a ‘No’ and goes back to watching the left side of the street. “These people don’t have curtains. Floor to ceiling windows and shutters, but no curtains.”

  


"Huh. Must be nice...”  
  
Sherlock turns to him, his face the living embodiment of a question mark. “What must be nice?”  
  
“To just live, not care who is watching, it not matter that anyone is watching.”  
  
“Hmm. Or, there’s exhibitionists on that side. You think it’s voyeurs on this side?” With that he dashes across the street, leaving John walking a few steps before he realizes his partner is gone.  
  
Laughing, John calls, “So? What’s the verdict?”  
  
“Some curtains, but mostly the same as this side. Windows open, half from the bottom, half from the top. I’ve only seen the one person though. It would be foolish of me to make a determination based on so little data.” As Sherlock finishes his sentence he is back at John’s side.  
  
“And you are never foolish.”  
  
“Hmm. It’s happened,” Sherlock murmurs.  
  
“Could happen again, then?” John pokes.  
  
“Possibly.” Sherlock replies and nudges John toward a doorway that has a steaming basket of boiled crawfish hanging in the window. “Local flavor for dinner or would you rather that steak. Or the jazz clubs?”  
  
“God, that smells good! But I thought, don’t you want to meet up with Nic later, see if she can get us started on the Tarty Toff?”  
  
“You are not calling it that,” Sherlock says with a sniff.  
  
“The Elusive Escort? Be nice if it could be the Happy Hooker, but how many of our cases have happy endings?” He smothers a grin at Sherlock’s scowl, “Until there is a better one, it’s the Tarty Toff. And? Didn’t you want to meet up with her?”  
  
“She didn’t eat breakfast at home, and she only had a couple bites of your scramble. The way she treated those burgers, she would rather cut off her hand than eat one. Unless she orders in, which will probably not happen as that construction crew is about to be joined by another and that one is bringing the cocaine. No. She will be hungry and missing your taste in music, if not our company by 5, ready to fly out the door at 6. We can take her to dinner with us, and lay out the case. She’ll help us.”  
  
“How do you know that? She knows these people; we are strangers, Sherlock.”  
  
“She’ll help us because it’s a good case. She hates being bored. And she is curious...”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About what kind of trouble we will be getting into,” Sherlock rumbles with a grin as he nudges  John into the doorway for the Central Grocery.

“Oh my god!” John breathes deeply. “This! Yes, this is what I want! I might love that girl.”

  
“She’s 30, John, hardly a girl.”  
  
“Shut it, you know what I mean,” John says over his shoulder as he gets in line and looks into the display case to his right. “Do you know this sandwich she wants us to get?”  
  
“Muffuletta. This place seems to be the home of the original,” Sherlock says with a nod over the counter to the display bags proclaiming just that.  
  
“Well then. Ok. One ‘original muffuletta sandwich’ it is. And you better eat your half. You didn’t have breakfast either. Or dinner for that matter.”  
  
“Honestly, John. Even the Kosher option was repulsive. You cannot expect me to eat what that airline considers food.”  
  
“It wasn’t that bad.” As they get closer to the counter, John sees the order options. Whole, half, and quarter pieces. “Fucking christ, look at the size of that thing!”  
  
“One muffuletta sandwich, to go please.” Sherlock orders and looks down at John, “If we don’t finish it, we can give it to Nicole for her lunch tomorrow. From the smell of this place, it will taste even better then.”  
  
~~  
  
They walk back out, Sherlock holding the sandwich, John holding the plastic cups with the remnants of two Jameson and sodas. “I really shouldn’t be surprised, she does live here, but knowing how long it will take two complete strangers to walk up the street, down to the last sip of their drinks?” John is looking into his cup, granted, a little more empty than Sherlock’s, but the next store is a block away and Jackson Square a few more up from that.  
  
“She grew up here, on this street specifically. I wouldn’t be surprised if her family owned one of the bars we passed. She is working for an outsider, exacerbating the estrangement from her father.”  
  
“Do me a favor, and don’t bring any of that up. If she wants to talk about it, she will. Jesus.” John huffs out a breath and sees a  17 year old Nic, running wild on the streets and ditching parental disapproval. He tosses the mostly empty cups in a bin and sees a 20 year old Nic, home from college, at Mardi Gras or New Year’s. He thinks about 30 year old Nic, college degree, tending bar for a rival business. She seems content. Open to possibilities. Open to doing something different, making her own way. “Oh! You like her!”  
  
“Whatever do you mean?” Sherlock tries to sound innocent.  
  
“Who she is, the choices she’s made. You like her.” John is smiling up at Sherlock as he bumps him into the shop. “Get us two Sapporos. You want me to see if they have those cigarettes you liked?”  
  
“What?” Sherlock squawks as he whirls around to face John.  
  
“What? We’re on vacation. And if they have her brand, you can share.” John blinks up at Sherlock.  
  
 _He really does wear innocent much better than I do,_ Sherlock thinks to himself.  
  
~~  
  
Sherlock has the sandwich and the bag with the beers and cigarettes, his jacket draped over his arm. John enjoys the feeling of walking unencumbered, glancing into shops and mulling over Nicole. And Sherlock. Nicole and Sherlock? Oddly enough, that doesn’t set off anything, certainly nothing like Irene Adler did. _Which I really don’t want to be thinking about, thank you very much, so stop it. That whole thing was a debacle, setting up the lead in to the next great debacle. Which set up the next great debacle - and I am certainly not thinking about that right now because it comes part and parcel with, not a debacle, but a shit ton of emotion that is still all wrapped in Sherlock even though he wasn’t there for any of it._  
  
 _Great, this is me not thinking about that. Ok, so. Sherlock_. John looks over at the man: black slacks, white striped shirt  that is actually going a bit translucent with this heat. His eyes skitter up over the open neck and track a droplet of sweat as it meanders down Sherlock’s throat. With a hard blink he looks up at Sherlock’s face only to see the man looking at him rather intently.  
  
“I don’t think you need to spend any more time thinking about Nicole in my bed.” Sherlock says softly.  
  
“What?? I wasn’t - ”  
  
“By the time we left she was thinking about you in mine. Or me in yours.”  
  
“What??”  
  
“Your songs, John. She even said to you: ‘Well, aren’t you the soulful, romantic lover?’ well, at that point it was any permutation of the three of us, but still.”  
  
They're standing at the near side of Jackson Square. There is a silver-painted person pretending to be a statue right in front of them.  
  
John looks at the silver person and he can see his lip twitch. He looks away before they make each other smile. “Ok, Sherlock, look. I’m not going to get in your way if you want things to happen tonight. Just try and make it clear to me which way things are going. Don’t assume that everyone knows what’s going on, understood?”  
  
“Yes, John. Understood,” Sherlock says, looking at him in a way that John isn’t entirely sure he understands. With a glance over his shoulder at the silver person, who gives a flicker that was possibly a wink, John follows Sherlock across the street to what is probably that Moonwalk sign Nic was talking about. Sherlock breezes right by the sign and makes his way up and over and John sees his head disappear on the other side, which causes his heart to lurch sideways _and what the fuck is that about? He’s back, he’s fine. We are fine. It’s all fine._

  
John makes his way to the river and sees Sherlock sitting on his suit jacket, on the grass, pulling the enormous round sandwich out of the bag, tucking the handful of napkins under his knee and fiddling with the tape on the bottom of the sandwich. He looks up at John, actual happiness on his face.  “I thought you were hungry, sit down. I want to try this ‘local flavor sandwich’,” Sherlock calls out to John whose heart does that sideways lurch again. _Shit._  
  
 _Buggering fuck. Shit. Tamp it down, Watson. You are not going to ruin this trip with your fucking Want. Food to be eaten, drinks to be drunk, music to be listened to, fun to be had. This is going to be a good time, god dammit. If you ruin it, so help me..._  
  
Which makes him giggle, and that’s ok. He nestles in on Sherlock’s jacket and reaches to pull the beers out of the bag. Grabs the cigarettes first and slides them into the nearest jacket pocket, then grabs the beers and pops one open and hands it to Sherlock.  
  
Who is still fiddling with the tape on the enormous round sandwich. “Oh, give it here!” John laughs and pushes the beer into Sherlock’s hand as he takes the sandwich from him, unsticks the tape and unfolds the paper to reveal more paper. He flips the sandwich over and unfolds the paper and _Jesus this is greasy,_ and there it is.

Sesame seeded Italian loaf, green olive salad, meats, cheeses. Should possibly sound revolting, but it smells delicious. He picks up a quarter and hands it to Sherlock, who is looking at him like...  
  
“What?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Ok then. Ready?” John cracks his beer and rests it against his ankles inside his crossed legs. Sherlock places his beer in the same way and holds up his quarter sandwich. They bite at the same time.  
  
“Oh my fucking god.”  
  
“Mmmm hmm.”  
  
“This is amazing.”  
  
“Mmmm hmmm.”  
  
For a long moment the only sounds are muffled moans and groans, the occasional seagull, pigeons cooing, and chewing.  
  
“Pass me a napkin, I have oil half way down my arm.”  
  
“Mmmf.”

    
  
“Sherlock,  you’re going to get hiccups. Drink your beer.”  
  
Now the only sounds are the river quietly slapping against the rocks, an occasional seagull, pigeons cooing, and the slurp and swallow of a still cold Sapporo, because John cannot look away. Sherlock, crescent of meat, cheese, and bread left in his hand, silver beer can tipped up and refracting sunlight, swallowing, swallowing, swallowing. Sweat damp curls. White shirt with translucent stripes.  
  
Sherlock sighs. Replete. Contentment is shimmering off him and John realizes that this was probably what it felt like to Sherlock, sitting next to him at Checkpoint Charlie with the Motown on and two Jameson and coffees in him at 11 in the morning. He hopes so, anyway. The calm washes over him again and he settles back into the friend zone just as Sherlock leans over and chastely brushes his lips against John’s, saying, “Thank you.”  
  
John blinks. _What the actual fuck?!_  
  
“What for?”  
  
“This, all of this.” Sherlock looks around at the Mississippi river, it would have been the longest river in the world if they had measured it from the other direction, or something like that. Barges going, a ferry going. Cars on that bridge. People, everywhere people and sure it’s hot but nobody is in a foul mood. Oh wait, there’s a breeze.  Oh! That’s why people sit here! This sandwich. This beer. This man. This... paddlewheel boat with a steam calliope that starts barking out some song. He laughs.  
  
“Even that?”  
  
“Even that.”  
  
“Huh. You’re welcome. Anytime. My pleasure.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Yes.” Because what can he say? Really? Yes, he is welcome. Yes, anytime. and Yes, it was, and is, his pleasure. The kiss, yes, whatever it means, probably nothing. Sherlock and his ridiculous notions of personal space. Honestly, he’s felt like this since the first minute. It really doesn’t matter what the question is. It’s Sherlock, so. Yes.  
  
Sherlock who, apparently, is going to be taking a little nap now, on the grass, half on his jacket, arm tucked up under his head, face tilted to the sun. John snags the mostly empty beer can before it tips over and just watches him for a moment. He doesn’t even register the rest of his sandwich, it’s only when a seagull flaps in bold as brass and snags Sherlock’s crust that he realizes his hand is empty. Greasy, but empty. The napkins are now firmly wedged under Sherlock’s arse, but this is disgusting. Snatching the napkins and wiping his hands he looks at Sherlock’s. Clean, the fucker. Ate the thing so fast that there wasn’t time for it to drip.  
  
Hands as clean as they are going to get without soap and water, John tilts his head up and enjoys the sun on his face and the breeze coming in across the river. Buzzed on whiskey and good food, he rewinds that kiss, and has a think. Does it change anything?  Mmm nope. Sherlock is his best friend, and he loves him. This city has done something to his brain, possibly Sherlock’s as well. The constant buzz quelling our inhibitions. Or something. Anywhere else on the planet and this would probably be a thing, an issue, but here? now? it’s just Sherlock saying thanks. Considering how that never happens, no wonder he conveyed it unconventionally. There, that’s sorted.  
  
Sherlock gives a little sigh and John looks over. At the tiny mound of Sherlock’s belly. One quarter of a muffuletta swelling by the second with most of a can of Sapporo. John hums with contentment, wraps up the other half of the sandwich, flips it and wraps the outer paper, tapes it back and tucks it into the sturdy white plastic bag that proclaims Home of the Original Muffuletta. Takes the last pull of his beer and looks down at his watch.  
  
How is it already 2? Fuck it. He stretches out next to Sherlock.  
  
~~  
  
Sherlock starts awake to a flutter of pigeons. He sits up and looks around. Three pigeons are fighting over one of his bread ends. One flaps away triumphant, a scrap of meat dangling from its beak. Disgusting.  
  
Still pleasantly lightheaded he looks over at John, stretched out beside him, hands folded behind his head. Relaxed. Content. _This man. This amazing man that I kissed and said all this and he said yes._  
  
“John.”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“John.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“I’m ready for my sweet now, John.”  
  
“Grrmmmmok. M’up.” Stretching. Sherlock watches John stretch his left side, reaching, then his right. Watches him sit up and brace himself on his hands behind him, arching his back. _Surprisingly attractive,_ Sherlock’s lips quirk as he remembers Nicole seeing John for the first time, actually seeing him, watching the realization cross her face and observing how the dynamic changed in that moment. “What woke you?” John asks, looking at his watch.  
  
“Pigeons. Scavenging. If whatever that was earlier hadn’t dropped part of my sandwich, I am certain they would have gone for my eyes.”  
  
John chuffs a laugh and looks around their area. Jacket, wrinkled and speckled with grass and dirt, check. Half an original muffuletta sandwich, check. No beer cans.  
  
“Homeless took them. I heard the cart.”  
  
“Mm. Ok, so. You’re ready for the next leg of our adventure, then?”  
  
Sherlock thinks: _I will not ever get bored with this man._  
  
~~  
  
Two grown men, squashed into a cafe table sized for 12 year olds. Two cups of coffee and a plate of beignets between them. Odd number of them, the bastards. John leans in a little and picks the top one, holding it almost ready for a bite. Sherlock takes one and lifts it. John says, “If you blow that sugar on me I will punch you right the fuck out.”

  
Sherlock’s snort of laughter blows powdered sugar all over them both.  
  
~~  
  
“Seriously? That wasn’t enough sugar? What are these things, anyway?”  
  
“Pralines, John.”  
  
 _How the fuck does he say this shit right, he’s never been here before and that is not a French accent._  Fucker. “Fine, they have samples. Taste as many as you like. I’m not carrying anything back though.”  
  
“Why are you grumpy? You didn’t have a good nap?”  
  
“I’m not a child, Sherlock, and I’d like a wash now that you added sugar to my previous layer of grime.”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock huffs, and orders a box of assorted.  None with the marshmallows though, thank you.  
  
Sherlock is swinging his bag of sweets, and the half a sandwich, clutched together in the same hand, and John can’t help but love the man. Child. Really. Sometimes.  
  
“Do you want another coffee? Jameson?” Sherlock asks as they enter the fruit and veg area of the French Market. He is smiling.    
  
 _Have I ever seen him smile so much? John wonders.  Everything is different with him today, what happened? How did I miss it? This is great, I’m not complaining, but I feel like something huge shifted. Pangaea-cracking-apart huge, and I didn’t even notice it._  Sherlock is changing the game. John doesn’t understand the new rules, but he’s willing to roll with it.  
  
“When?” John asks. Could be about coffee. Could be his thoughts.  
  
“Today,” Sherlock replies. Could be coffee, could be reading John's mind.  
  
What was the question?    
  
~~  
  
John ducks into the restroom to wash his hands, _finally!!_ and splash some water on his face and Jesus fuck this paper towel is not helping with the sodding sugar on my shirt. Sherlock flushes and joins him at the sink, washes his hands and says, “Here.” and proceeds to tidy John’s shirt and somehow it’s clean now. Fucker.  
  
“So.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You still want to go back to the room? Take a shower?”  
  
John blinks. “Yes.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * [pan·der (pndr)](http://www.thefreedictionary.com/pandering) intr.v. pan·dered, pan·der·ing, pan·ders
> 
> 1\. To act as a go-between or liaison in sexual intrigues; function as a procurer.  
> 2\. To cater to the lower tastes and desires of others or exploit their weaknesses
> 
>  
> 
> [§14:84: Pandering](http://prostitution.procon.org/view.background-resource.php?resourceID=739#8)
> 
> Pandering is the intentional:
> 
> (1) Enticing, placing, persuading, encouraging, or causing the entrance of any person into the practice of prostitution, either by force, threats, promises, or by any other device or scheme;
> 
> (2) Maintaining a place where prostitution is habitually practiced;
> 
> (3) Detaining any person in any place of prostitution by force, threats, promises, or by any other device or scheme;
> 
> (4) Receiving or accepting by a person as a substantial part of support or maintenance anything of value which is known to be from the earnings of any person engaged in prostitution;
> 
> (5) Consenting, on the part of any parent or tutor of any person, to the person's entrance or detention in the practice of prostitution; or
> 
> (6) Transporting any person from one place to another for the purpose of promoting the practice of prostitution.
> 
>  
> 
> **Whoever commits the crime of pandering shall be fined not more than five thousand dollars, imprisoned with or without hard labor for not more than five years, or both.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **[Prostitution Laws of Louisiana](http://prostitution.procon.org/view.background-resource.php?resourceID=739)**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock actually goes back to Checkpoint Charlie while John is in the shower, carrying the half a muffuletta and the box of pralines. He walks into the early portions of a Bacchanalia. Something screaming and buzzy is playing on the jukebox, the construction crew has indeed been joined by another, and yes, they have brought the coke. And women. They don’t look like the coke whores that Nicole referred to earlier; there is no superfluous money changing hands here, it is just coke, for companionship, that might lead to sex. If anyone can still get it up by then.

She looks a bit harried. Slightly wild eyed, but not because of the coke. Well, yes, because of the coke, but because of how the coke is affecting her patrons, not because she needs more herself, or has done any for that matter.

Her hair was down this morning but now it is up in a knot on the top of her head that is drooping off to the side. That actually looks a bit 80s, and Sherlock chortles. Coughs. There is an older man sitting in front of the garnish tray, next to where John and Sherlock were sitting this morning. Sherlock slides into an empty seat beside him and says hello.

“Don’t talk to me you fucking fuck. Do I look like I want to be talking to anyone?”

“That’s Gary,” Nicole murmurs. She’s eased around to Sherlock’s left and speaks quietly enough for Gary not to hear, “He is rather anti-social. Don’t take it personally. The regulars know to leave a spot open on either side.” Sherlock looks and realizes that those are, were, the only two empty seats at the bar. “Would you like a drink? Where’s John? How was your day?” she asks, smiling up at him like she is truly interested in real answers.

“Jameson and soda please, taking a shower, best day ever.”

“Well, it can’t be the Best Day Ever if you’re here and he’s in the shower, now can it?”

Sherlock honestly hadn’t even thought about that option. He flashes back to the earlier conversation: _'You still want to go back to the room? Take a shower?'_

_John blinks. 'Yes.'_

“What was he saying yes to?” Sherlock murmurs, not meaning to speak aloud.

“John? Probably just yes. You, so, yes.”

“How can it be that simple?”

“Oh baby. You’ve been out in the world too long. Nobody is looking and if they are, so what? Just be. Be happy.”

Sherlock recalls the almost wistful tone John said: _'To just live, not care who is watching, it not matter that anyone is watching.'_

Sherlock breathes. “I brought you the other half of our sandwich, and pralines. No marshmallows.”

“How did you know I don’t like that kind?”

“I didn’t. I tasted some in the shop,” with the nose crinkle at ‘tasted’ his thoughts on the matter are clear. “They were...”

“Disgusting” they both say at once. Sherlock’s mouth quirks up into a half smile and Nicole is grinning up at him, like, yes. Like John. No hurt or betrayal or other shadows briefly flashing behind her eyes though, and Sherlock swallows against the pain, what he put John through with his Fall, everything they went through in their time apart. Nicole looks at Sherlock the way John used to. Just, yes.

“Come to dinner with us?”

“I’m waiting for Steve to relieve me, and then I can count my till and be out. Where do you want me to meet you?”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“What? It’s all on me? It’s your vacation!”

“Disgusting local crustaceans that smell delicious, your steak, jazz club.”

“Hm. Steak. You will tell me your story, yes? Probably jazz club. Crawfish maybe tomorrow. The R Bar does a free thing,” she says with a wink. “Port of Call, just up that way,” she points her chin toward Esplanade. “On the left side. It shouldn’t be too full now, I’ll meet you at the bar in a bit.”

Sherlock pushes the bags into Nicole’s hands and practically runs out of the bar to the hotel. Tears up the stairs to their suite and starts ripping off his clothes while he starts the shower running. He’s under the warm spray, half soaped, shampoo in his eyes when he hears John come out of his room asking, “Sherlock?”

“Shower.”

John swears he hears a mumbled “obviously” but lets it slide. “Why are you still in the shower? You all right?” _Shit. Awkward?_

“I gave Nicole the sandwich and sweets. She’s meeting us for steak.”

John can’t help but grin at the sound of triumph in Sherlock’s voice. He sounds very, ‘I killed a thing for you, come back to my cave,’ so no, not awkward, but the potential to be awkward. Self check: nope. Still completely all right with that. That’s odd isn’t it? He kissed me and I said anytime, yes, and now we are going to dinner with a rather attractive woman who finds us, him, me, attractive.

Whatever.

“When?” John says through the bathroom door.

“What time is it?”

“Quarter to 6?”

“20 minutes.”

“Well hurry the fuck up then!” John says at the door and he hears Sherlock turn off the water. Seconds later a soaking wet Sherlock opens the door, towel wrapped around his waist. John blinks at the collarbone in front of his eyes. Sherlock takes him by his shoulders and they take a step back, out of the doorway. He dips his head and kisses John, light yet firm.

“Toss me some trousers and a shirt, would you?” and Sherlock is past him, digging through his carryall for pants and socks, flinging them over his shoulder onto his bed.

John parses the kiss and at the same time he hears the soft plop of the socks on the bed. _The fuck is this? This is something we do now? When did this become my life?_ He hears Sherlock’s answer echo in his head. _'Today.'_

He takes some black trousers off the hanger and flicks through the shirts. Purple, teal, grey, another white, this one not striped, a darker grey with delicate embroidery? Slightly swirling stripes in black. He’s running his thumb across the raised pattern, back and forth, back and forth.

Sherlock is mostly dry now, wearing pants and socks and taking the trousers out of John’s left hand, as he points to the shirt John’s currently caressing. “That one?”

“Sure.”

John takes it off the hanger and turns to hand it to Sherlock, who is bent over pulling his trousers on. The line of his back, clean and strong, not knobby as it was in the beginning or layered in fresh scars as it was when he came back. The curve of his arse as he pulls his trousers over it is mesmerizing. His fingers quick, fastening, zipping. Sherlock turns, reaching for the shirt.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“You all right?”

“Sure,” he says, _tamp it down, Watson!_ and hands Sherlock his shirt.

~~

The bar at Port of Call is almost full. The short end by the door still has dirty plates on it but the barstools there are kicked back and empty. Sherlock slides onto the far seat and gestures to John to take the one nearest the door, pulling the middle stool closer to him.

John bites his lip at his smile over how possessive Sherlock is; she isn’t even here yet. The bartender comes to the end of the bar, gathers up the plates, basket, silverware, and says he’ll be right back. John spots the jukebox and looks over at Sherlock.“Drink?”

“Jameson and soda,” Sherlock says with a nod.

“Yeah, me too,” John replies, smiling.

When the bartender comes back, Sherlock gives their order and sits back. Observing. Families, couples, friends, at the tables, at the bar, people out on their own. There is a different dynamic, though, between the servers and some patrons. Somewhere between friendly and intimate. It starts to dawn on him that this case might be more difficult than he thought. Infiltrating an insular community without a contact. If he can’t connect with someone on the inside, someone who works for the escort service, the next option would be to get an in on the cocaine side, but that’s not his life anymore and he really doesn’t want to consider it.

Just as that reality settles, he sees a familiar fall of dark hair at John’s left side. Her arm is around his back, hand curled softly around his right bicep. _Deceptively attractive._ Sherlock’s lips twitch up and he can tell by the way her head moves that she’s kissing him on the cheek and is saying something in his ear. John doesn’t startle. _Did he see her come in? Is he that comfortable around her, already?_ He’s running through their time together, fast forward, but he hasn’t determined the answer to that question before she slides into the seat between them, scooting it more equidistant, and out a little. She places her little bag on the bar and leans toward Sherlock, right hand reaching up and cupping his neck, thumb on his jaw, fingertips in his hair, and brushes a kiss against his lips. She rubs her thumb along his jaw, softly, once as she pulls back. “Thank you for having me,” she says softly.

John is biting his lips and trying not to smile. _Is that what she said to him? Did he even hear?_ The bartender has come and gone, leaving their drinks. Sherlock takes a sip. “This isn’t right,” he says.

The bartender looks over and says, “Oh, got it. Up in a second, Nic.”

“Thanks Tim!” She says fondly back at him and Sherlock is assessing. Early 30s, full sleeve tattoos. Dark hair, light blue eyes. White vest, jeans, boots. Typical uniform of the type. Not involved with the brothel, but is involved with one of the strippers. Long blonde hair. He opens his mouth but before he utters a word John says, “Sherlock, shut it” and the man comes over with Nicole’s drink and two lemon slices.

“Sorry about that, you didn’t say,” he says to Sherlock, squeezing the lemon into the glass, then sweeping it across the rim. He does the same to John’s.

Sherlock takes a sip, licking his lips and blinking over the lemon and soda sparking across his tongue. His eyes sparkle. He says, “Perfect.”

Tim nods, grinning at Nicole and there is a history there, but what? He looks at John, then Sherlock, then back at Nicole and quirks an eyebrow. “John,” she says looking at him, “Sherlock,” she says to him, “Tim,” and looks up at him with that same fond smile.

“A pleasure, I’m sure.” Tim is looking at them both now, individually. Assessing? No. Accepting. “I’d say a steak, rare, with salads and loaded potatoes, but there are three of you.” He looks at Nicole, who looks first to John and then to Sherlock.

“Two steaks, 3 salads, and potatoes.” Looking to Sherlock, then John, “Is rare ok?”

“Sure,” John tells Tim and Sherlock just nods.

“All right. Back in a bit.” With a wink to Nicole, he’s back down the bar.

“How was your day, John?” She asks, and he can tell, she actually wants to know.

“Best day ever. Thank you,” and she can tell he means it.

“And it’s not over yet,” she says ducking her head to hide her grin and sips her drink. Looking at Sherlock she asks, “So. The trouble you’re up to?”

“The case? Or...”

“Either.”

“There is a missing girl. Woman. Louise Chatham. 28, ginger, about 5’5. She left London when she was 17, and until recently has been in touch with her mother. Her mother became concerned, told her father, her father asked my brother for help, my brother asked me. John and I.”

“And, what makes you think she worked at Jack’s?”

“We were able to triangulate the mobile phone towers that were used when she placed her phone calls to her mother.”

“Hacker, or government?”

John snickers into his drink. “Add detective and you’ve got ‘em all.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. “I am a detective, my brother is government. The father is also government, to a lesser extent.”

John chortles a little at that.

“Who’s the hacker then?” Nicole asks, looking from John to Sherlock.

“My _other_ brother,” Sherlock says with a sigh. “He isn’t involved in this.”

“Yet. Could be. Never know with you three. How many of our cases have happy endings, again, Sherlock?” John asks, eyes twinkling, as he sips his drink.

“Oh, please. This case is not going to need MI6. This case needs us: we find the girl, we let her know that her family wants to know she is safe. We go home.”

“That’s it?” Nicole asks, not blinking.

“That’s it,” Sherlock confirms.

“Nic, you know these people. Does she sound familiar? Is it possible that she has been kidnapped or killed?”

She pauses. Sips her drink. Eyes flicking like they would be if she were looking through a photo album. Quickly. “You said ginger. You mean a red-head. How red? Blonde with red, orange red, auburn, chestnut?”

“Auburn then,” Sherlock replies.

“Hm. Could be. Tattoos?”

“None that her family know about.”

“Well,” she says rolling her eyes, “that isn’t actually saying much, even if she had seen them in the past 10 years. Ok. So. You need to first determine which of Jack’s girls this Louise is. Then find her, or what happened to her. Yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers.

“Photo?”

Sherlock begins to reach into his jacket pocket, and realizes his jacket is in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor in his hotel room. “I got changed in a rush, it’s back in my room.”

She runs her fingers through his still wet hair. “You didn’t have to rush.”

Movement catches Sherlock’s eye and he looks up to see Tim, with a serving tray covered with plates. He lays them out: three small salads, three baked potatoes on salad plates, three pieces of filet mignon on salad plates, and another piece of filet cut in two on a final salad plate. John starts to giggle. Then it erupts into a full, joyous laugh. Sherlock just looks at the array, baffled.

“But why? No! Don’t tell me.” Sherlock looks down the bar at the other patrons’ plates. Then across the room, again at the other patrons’ tables. “Sharing a plate. That means something. Couples? No, you shared our breakfast plate at the bar.” Sherlock looks at the people sharing an entree again. How the servers interact with them. “When Tim was taking our order, he didn’t ask. ‘ _I’d_ say a steak, rare, with salads and loaded potatoes, but there are three of you.’ He knows your habits, but not ours.”

“You don’t have enough information to go on, but you are headed in the right direction,” Nicole interrupts. “But please, eat while we talk?” The filet pieces on the plates are the size of filets served at most restaurants; the salad dressing is a Roquefort, not Bleu Cheese; the potato is overflowing with sour cream, bacon, chives, covered in freshly shredded cheddar. “When I started coming here, I always shared the entree: two salads, two potatoes, split the meat. Filling, but you aren’t gorged. Then, I started coming with a vegetarian friend, and when we shared a plate, I got the meat and he got the sides,” she says with a wink. “Actually, there’s a whole other side of this that you are probably missing. Have you ever been a server? With regular patrons, ordering the same thing every time?” John shakes his head, but Sherlock looks assessing. “New Orleans is different from anywhere else I’ve lived. When you factor the suburbs into the whole it is a metropolitan city, but the individual pieces are more like small towns. And then the neighborhoods, the Quarter, Marigny, Bywater, Irish Channel, those are more like communities. Everyone knows everyone. As a server, you eventually get to the point with people that you can just write ‘Bruce’ or ‘Nic’ or ‘Firehouse’ and know exactly what the order is, because if your patron wanted something different, they would go somewhere else. Does that make sense?”

Sherlock nods and says, “So, when two regulars show up and want to share a plate, which does mean something,” she just blinks, so Sherlock continues, “when the server writes the order: ‘Nic’ and ‘Vegetarian-’

“The kitchen staff just throws it all on individual plates and let the Venn diagram of plate sharing happen naturally.”

Sherlock nods. “That explains the extra half cut in half. It is still to be shared. But, it’s more than that. You and Tim have a history, outside of eating here.”

“Like I said, small community in a small town. It’s probably harder to find people that don’t know each other, especially among us working in service.” Her mouth quirks a bit.

“John and I are never going to find Louise on our own, are we? Service, it’s like a family. Her livelihood is illegal, so you wouldn’t talk about it with an outsider.”

“I can’t speak for everyone, but it depends on you, really. What are you going to do with the information? If I’m ok with what you are doing, then I’m ok with helping you. You said, ‘we find the girl, we let her know that her family wants to know she is safe. We go home.’ But this investigation is for her family. We both know that some family is... difficult. If you find her, and she doesn’t want her family to know, what will you do?”

“If she’s alive, ask her what she wants me to tell her family. If she is dead, tell the family and be ready to investigate further.”

“You would lie, to her family, the people that hired you to do this job?”

“I do what I think is right,” Sherlock states and John nods to himself, dragging his bite of meat through the baked potato, savoring the rich complexity of all the flavors. He thinks of all the cases they have worked on that could have involved the Yard, but didn’t because yes, justice factors into it, sometimes, but mostly it’s just about solving the puzzle and letting the pieces sort it out for themselves.

“John?” He looks into her brown eyes. She has a dusting of fine grain glitter on her left cheek. “If she is alive, in a situation that you don’t agree with, but doesn’t want her family to know, what is the right thing to do?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. It depends on the situation. There are so many ways this case might go. All I know right now is we have to find a girl who works in an industry that doesn’t talk to strangers.”

It hits John harder now than when he and Sherlock were talking about it earlier. Somehow, his one time, forever ago, in a 24 hour bar on the edge of the French Quarter has led them to what might be the perfect contact for this case. Someone who used to work for the same person as the missing woman, someone who might actually know this missing woman. Someone who, if she doesn’t know Louise personally, knows plenty of people who might. He recalls what she said this morning, _‘You tell me the story, if there is anything I can help you with, I could take you around, meet people, whatever.’_ He turns in his chair so he is facing her. “Everyone makes bad decisions. Words are said that you can’t take back.” _You machine!_ echoes in his head. “Her family is worried. Some people have the opportunity to fix it, or get back on track. We aren’t here to judge, just to facilitate.”

Nicole nods and does a complicated thing with her mouth. Approving, wry, intrigued. She looks around at their end of the bar: Empty glasses, almost empty glasses. Salad plates, all empty. Sherlock’s meat is gone, as well as every scrap of good stuff from inside the potato, but the majority of the potato is still there. John’s plates are all empty and he is reaching for the one of the extra pieces of the second filet half. She takes the other, cutting it in half and holding that portion directly up to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Bite. We are going to go and listen to a hundred kinds of jazz now. I want to see your picture of this girl, but I don’t know you near well enough yet to just go back to your room,” she says with a wicked little grin and Sherlock knows she is saying more than one thing here. He looks over at John who is wiping his mouth and looking through his wallet.

“What’s our tab?” John says, looking at Nic.

“Yours was added onto mine when I joined you,” she replies. “So, ‘family’ discount. Everyone here tips out. Servers tip out the bartender, both tip out the kitchen. Give it a shot.”

“But I don’t know what anything costs, and tipping is... complicated,” he finishes, with a hint of frustration.

“You did more than right by me this afternoon.” She is looking at him, and he understands that this is about more than just paying the bill. He is compensating for service. How much he leaves is directly proportional to how much he wants to receive this same experience again. He didn’t really think about what the prices were for their drinks this morning, but he is certain that Sherlock, at least, made note of the price board. He paid for the food, which wasn’t even on the menu, the drinks, but also the music, the conversation, the experience, and yes, paying in advance for the opportunity to use her as a contact. _Sherlock and his Homeless Network._

“For regular people, then, how much are the steaks?” He asks her, and by the look on her face, this is the right question.

“$27,” she replies.

He does the math in his head quickly, then tries to figure if Tim might be a contact for the case. It’s possible, but even if he isn’t, the food was fantastic and yes, he would like to have this same experience again. He pulls out two $50s and lays them on the bar, between his plates and Nic’s.

“I knew you for a local the first time I saw you. No matter where you’re from. Welcome home,” she says and leans in, kissing him softly.

She takes the $50s and lays them horizontal on the bar mat, places another $20 on it, vertically. “Because I can,” she answers John’s unasked _Why?_ “I did very well today, and the next time Tim has an opportunity to send some nice people somewhere, he’ll remember I brought him you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are internal links for the hotel and music. See end notes for more links.

  
When they walk out of Port of Call, the evening is comfortable, clear. John has no idea what time it is and no desire to check his watch. Nic hooks her arms in theirs, walking between them, keeping the pace slow, close. They make their way down Esplanade and cross diagonal before Decatur, they could be headed back to Checkpoint Charlie, or [the Frenchman](http://www.frenchmenhotel.com/), for that matter.

Their hotel is... interesting, and pink. Like much of this city, the buildings that make up the hotel have been adapted and morphed into something unique. The room is a two bedroom suite, condo, something. It’s a flat, is what it is. Living room, dining area, full kitchen and bath, and massive, comfortable beds. The decor is something out of _Supernatural_ , and John wouldn’t be surprised if the creators stayed here once, took the idea and ran with it. Up on the second floor, they not only have a balcony that looks over the courtyard with a pool, but the furnishings are old, comfortable, and eclectic. Much like their flat back in London, but with a touch of disco. As they walk, John thinks that that is why he feels so much at home here, but he recalls that he felt the same way forever ago, with his Army mates, tearing it up like hooligans and generally acting like they could all die tomorrow.

“How long has it been?” Nic asks John.

“Forever. A lifetime ago,” John murmurs.

Sherlock makes a small sound, not quite distressed, but not entirely positive.

“You both have those,” she says, looking at Sherlock and then back at John. “Lifetimes. This is your second one together, though.” Looking up at Sherlock she asks, “What did you do?”

John huffs out a small, almost pained sounding laugh, looking at Nic watching Sherlock’s face. His reaction to her question is subtle, but John sees it, and so does Nicole. “He died,” John answers.

“Oh, good trick,” she says approvingly. “If I didn’t love this city so much I probably would have tried that by now.” She squeezes them closer to her in what feels like a hug, though she only has them by the biceps. “Hard to stay dead, when you had something to come home to, was it?” She bumps Sherlock with her hip.

“It was never an option,” Sherlock says quietly as he looks over Nicole’s head and meets John’s gaze.

She hums her understanding and squeezes them both again. “Lifetimes before, a lifetime together, a lifetime apart, and now another lifetime together. If you don’t make the most of it, you’re fools.”

A snippet of their day echos through John’s head. _‘And you are never foolish.’_

_‘Hmm. It’s happened.’ Sherlock’s murmur._

_‘Could happen again, then?’ John, poking fun._

_‘Possibly.’_

 

They stand at the corner of Frenchman and Decatur. People, music, so many different smells, some of them food. “So. Dancing? Sitting? Talking? Vocals? Traditional? Dixieland?”

John breathes deep and just says, “Yes.”

She smiles to herself. These two. They want the same thing, but they are expecting completely different things. Well, not expecting. The city has them and they are in the flow of feeling and doing and just enjoying each moment for what it brings. The case is on their minds, sure, but John is ready to get lost in the music, and Sherlock? He’s already lost in John. The commitment is obvious, but for whatever reason, their history? Histories? They aren’t everything they could be. She remembers John swaying in his seat, dancing with Sherlock in his head. However many clubs they have to go into tonight, she is determined to get them that dance.

“This way,” she says, guiding them up the street and ducking into a club. Perky jazz with a bit of swing to it embraces them as they follow her up to the bar. John slows his walk, taking in the atmosphere. The pictures on the walls, the signage above the bar, light bouncing off the glasses in the dimness. Nic is already on a barstool, kneeling up on it and giving the bartender a soft brush of the lips. Sherlock has taken the seat on her right, so John takes the seat on her left, echoing their placement from dinner. “Jack, this is Sherlock, and John. They are having the Best Day Ever,” she says with a grin.

“Lucky you!” He says to them both, eyes twinkling. Sherlock looks him over. Late 30s, slender, no visible tattoos, completely different type from Tim. “It’s a pleasure to serve,” he continues, mouth quirking and grin blooming on his face. “Jameson and sodas, then?” he asks, already scooping ice into glasses, looking at all three of them, taking in Sherlock’s nod, Nic’s body language, and John’s ‘Please!’

He pours them into pint glasses, but does the same thing with the lemon that Tim did. “This is a pattern. You’ve done this with both of them,” Sherlock states more than asks.

She leans over and bumps into his shoulder softly. “A lady never tells,” she’s smiling and blinking slowly, so it isn’t quite batting her eyes, but it’s close and John smothers a giggle as he sips his drink. The [vocalist](http://youtu.be/EKd-hqWgVH8) is gorgeous, blonde, hair done up in a 1940s style, actually the whole band has a WWII thing going on. Soulful, yet swingy. There’s a handful of people on the dance floor. John watches one couple dressed to match the band, swing dancing like there isn’t any other kind. They are amazing to watch and John gets a bit lost in them, back turned to Sherlock and Nic.

Sherlock is looking at Nicole. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“Helping you, you mean?” she replies with a quirk to her eyebrow and half a smile.

“Is that what you are doing?”

“You don’t want my help?”

Sherlock makes a growling sound and says, “You know we need your help.”

She lifts her hand to his face, brushing his cheek with her thumb. “Relax. Enjoy. Him. This. Just be, Sherlock.”

The song ends and John turns back to them, hears that last bit and smiles up at Sherlock. This is good. _She’s good for him_ , he thinks. He watches Sherlock breathe, and unconsciously his breathing slows to match. They reach for their drinks at the same time and their eyes meet.

Sherlock takes a long sip, licking the lemon off his lips he asks, “Dance?”

John looks to Nic, she’s smiling into her drink and meets John’s eyes from under her lashes. He doesn’t understand why she is looking at him. Sherlock just asked her to dance.

Still looking at him, she stands, nudging her barstool back with her hip. She meets Jack’s eye and slides her bag forward on the bar. “Keep this with you, sweetheart? We might be a while.”

The look he gives her as he takes her bag and places it behind the bar is more than fond. It’s knowing, and loving, and pleased. “Anytime, love,” he says to her as he looks first to John, then to Sherlock and just grins.

Sherlock stands and with a hand on her hip, takes a step toward the dance floor. She takes John’s hand, tugging him to his feet and the three of them join the small crowd. Couples moving together intimately, individuals dancing together in couples and small groups, the swing couple, still owning half the floor. She’s already moving to the music as she walks them into it and is smiling at them as they find their rhythm. Three individuals dancing together. They’re each following a different beat. Nic is following the brass, Sherlock the bass, and John the vocals. It shouldn’t work, but it does. They move together, one song after another, until the sweat is flowing freely.

“Break,” John sees Nic say as she trails her fingers down Sherlock’s sleeve and walks back to the bar. John’s fingers itch with the memory of that cuff under his thumb, standing in front of Sherlock’s closet and he is entirely surprised to find that Sherlock has moved toward him and is ducking his head to kiss him, still swaying to the music.

John’s hands move automatically, one to Sherlock’s hip, one to his arm as the vocals trail off and he slides into the bassline with Sherlock. The kiss is soft, not heavy with intent or meaning. It feels like kissing someone you’ve kissed a million times. A ‘hello, I’m glad you exist.’ John’s lips quirk up at that and Sherlock pulls back, happiness in his eyes and the corner of his mouth, looking down at John.

“All right?”

“Yes,” John breathes and pushes his want for this man off to the side. _This is Sherlock, he thinks, He doesn’t mean it how I’m feeling it._ Shaking his head slightly to clear it, he takes Sherlock’s hand, leading him back to the bar where Jack is placing fresh drinks at their places and Nic is pulling a cigarette out of her pack as she sucks down the melted remnants of her first drink through a straw. Jack takes her lighter and _clink, flick_ , lights it for her, grinning over at Sherlock and John.

She passes a cigarette to Sherlock and lights it for him. “Good?” she asks.

“Mmm,” he replies, somewhere between delighted and _this isn’t going how I want_ as he picks up his pint glass and takes a swallow through the straw. Eyebrows furrowed, he almost accuses the glass, “This is...”

“A completely different drink, now. Yes,” she looks over at him, and nods her understanding, one hand holding her hair up, the other rolling the pint glass, covered in cold droplets, across the back of her neck. John watches Sherlock’s eyes follow a drop trickle down the back of her neck and disappear into her top as he reaches for his drink and takes a long sip.

“Is that... a hawk, or..?” he hears Sherlock ask and looks over at Nic, leaning out to see what Sherlock is talking about. It’s just three lines, really. Two gentle curves that do look like a raptor in flight, a smaller line between them the suggestion of head and beak.

She’s busy tucking her hair into a knot on the top of her head and just winks at Sherlock saying, “Well spotted.” She finishes the melted drink and picks up the fresh one, sipping from the glass and licking the lemon off her lips she asks John, “What’s next?”

“You’re asking me? It’s your town!” He laughs in reply.

“But it’s your vacation,” she chirps. “Ready for more?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” He replies not really lying, because he is enjoying what they have going on between them. It’s just. He _wants_. But this is good and it is all he will ever get, so he just breathes and sucks the melted Jameson and soda through the straw. It is completely different. Mellow. The flavours of the whiskey, soda, and lemon have blended, not sparking separate across his palate the way a fresh one does.

She leans on the bar and takes a long drag of her cigarette, looking over at Sherlock who is exhaling his smoke to the ceiling with a thrust of his jaw. “Like those, do you?”

“John got us another pack. It’s in my jacket.”

“Mmm. I’ll keep that in mind,” she smiles over at John as she reaches across the bar and grabs three plastic cups, pouring their drinks in.

John is pulling a $50 out of his wallet and meets her eye as he lays it down on the bar mat, in front of her bag. She smiles and hands him his cup then pulls a $10 out of her bag and places it on top, then hands Sherlock his.

“Onward?” she asks Sherlock, who looks at John, who is looking out the front door, following the groups of people walking past, his head cocked as he picks up the strains of another band starting.

“Let’s,” he replies, wry quirk to his lips as he looks from John to Nicole and guides her to the front with his hand on her hip.

She leads them out across the street diagonally, past a placard with a child’s drawing of a white dog? cat? something with black spots, and into the club.

She weaves through the crowd and back to the bar and calls, “Jamie! I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

Jamie has dark red hair, auburn or chestnut, or she would if she hadn’t just shaved her head. The stubble is so short that the colour is barely discernable, but Sherlock looks closer. _Could this be Louise?_ The bone structure is a little off, but the picture they have is at least 10 years old .

She has a knee up on the beer cooler and is leaning across the bar to kiss Nicole. “I traded with Philip, I haven’t heard these guys,” she nods toward the band, “in forever and Phil hears them all the time between here and Three Muses,” she says after the kiss.

“Doubly lucky us then,” John hears Nic say, her eyes sparkling as she draws her hand lightly from Jamie’s neck, cupping the back of her head and rubbing her palm in a caress over the crown of her head. “I like it.”

“Thanks. I feel like a completely different person,” Jamie says intimately, like there isn’t a full Dixieland Jazz band playing to a crowd of somewhere between 50 and 100 people, at least a quarter of them carrying on conversations like they were sitting in their living room and not at a rather packed music club.

John lets the music and atmosphere wash over him, breathing deep the smell of people, drinks, smoke, feeling it fill him up. He opens his eyes to see all three of them looking at him, all with variations of happiness on their faces.

“Um,” he starts.

“Jamie, this is John,” she tilts her head to the right, “and Sherlock.”

“Best Day Ever?” she grins at the men, scooping ice into pint glasses and reaching for the Jameson.

“Working on it,” Sherlock rumbles, eyes sliding over to John as he settles onto a barstool, then parsing what Jamie said, cocks an eyebrow at Nicole.

Nicole ducks her head and grins down at her cup at that, and sits back in her chair, watching John. [The Moonshiners](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFXu6XlDH18) are a safe bet as far as music goes. John will be pleased with the variety, you never really know where the set is going one song to the next, as different musicians and singers flow through the door and are called up on stage. She sighs wistfully at the image of Sherlock and John, swaying in a kiss that was over entirely too quickly. She nods her thanks at Jamie who sets the fresh drinks in front of them. They aren’t making this easy, but they aren’t actually being difficult. It’s like they are on different chapters of the same book. Sherlock is already at the ‘they have been married for five years’ bit and John...

John is moving to the music and just, in the zone. It comes, and he seems to accept it. She can work with that.

She pushes her bag toward the bar mat and takes his hand, leading him past the tables and up to the people dancing in front of the band, looking over her shoulder at Sherlock and tilting her head in request: Coming?

There really isn’t much room on the dance floor but they squeeze in. The band is playing a ragtime number, jaunty with clarinet and brushes on the drums, trombone groaning and the trumpet tying it all together. Again they are all dancing to different threads of the song. Nic is rolling her hips to the kick drum, Sherlock has the bassline again, and John is following the horns. Ragtime flows into Dixieland which flows into traditional and John is so in the zone he doesn’t even realize his eyes are closed until the clear, sultry vocals start. His eyes snap open to see Sherlock nestled behind Nic, swaying slowly somewhere between the drums and the bassline. She’s looking at him through slitted eyes and a slow smile starts to bloom as she reaches out to pull John closer while the trombone moans. She runs her hand around his arm to his back and he reaches out for her waist and looks up at Sherlock whose eyes are closed but his hand is on John’s hip and they are dancing.

They sway slowly together, music washing over them, the singer croons about ‘sugar in my bowl,’ and ‘every man must fall,’ and ‘I wish I could share all the love that’s in my heart,’ and ‘do I move you,’ songs flowing one into the next and John never wants this to end.

But then everyone is clapping and the singer leaves the stage. A harmonica sounds and the drums start driving and the crowd is bouncing. They are still swaying together, not to any music but what’s in their heads.

“All right?” she murmurs and John blinks his eyes open to see Sherlock, close, cheek against Nic’s hair, looking at him and he should know what that look means, should know what Sherlock is saying with his eyes, but his body is thrumming with Jameson and beautiful, perfect music and all he can do is whisper, “Yes.”

She slips out from between them and heads to the bar. John follows on autopilot. He feels Sherlock’s exhale gust across the back of his neck as he winds his arm around John’s back, hand settling on his hip.

Their seats are taken, but Jamie is handing Nic their melted drinks, dropping straws in and tucking a bit of sweat damp hair back behind Nic’s ear. She presses the cool glasses into their hands and takes a deep sip of her own, breathing out a quiet sigh.

They stand together, still lost in their music, drinking down the mellow blend of whiskey, soda, and lemon. Nicole reaches into her bag for her cigarettes and pulls out her lighter, but no cigarettes. She tosses something between a grin and a glare at Jamie. “That’s coming out of your tip, young lady!” she laughs. “If I see any money on that bar from you I’ll spit in your drink!” Jamie laughs back.

John is giggling, watching them back and forth, Jamie is halfway down the bar pulling pints, the grey pack of Nic’s cigarettes tucked under her bra strap.

Sherlock’s baritone is like a caress. “Come on then, there’s a pack in my jacket.”

They walk out into the night, the street full of people, music coming from every direction. She hooks herself into their arms, pulling them in close, as they head down Frenchman to the hotel. Sherlock leads them through to the courtyard, then up the steps to their room. Nicole sighs, “Pool.”

Sherlock looks over his shoulder, opening their door, “We didn’t pack swim trunks...” his voice trails off as he moves into the room.

“So?” Nicole huffs out and follows him in. John stands for a minute, looking down at the small square pool and smaller jacuzzi. It does look nice. He tracks his eyes across the other doors, shuttered windows. Everything is dark. It is rather late. Early. Whatever.

Sherlock is already coming out of the bathroom, trying to shake out his very wrinkled jacket but gives up and pulls the envelope with the case notes out of his inside pocket, the cigarettes out of the side and tosses it back on the bathroom floor. He drops the envelope on the coffee table and hands the cigarette pack to Nicole.

She opens them and pulls out one and passes the pack back to Sherlock, who is already in her small bag pulling out the lighter, dropping the bag back on the coffee table. He lights hers, then his and says, “Thank you.”

“Best day ever?”

“Yes.”

“Over yet?”

“No,” he says, looking out the door at John, leaning on the balcony.

She takes a drag of her cigarette and steps close. “Still need my help?” she murmurs.

He looks down at the coffee table, glancing at the envelope with the photo of Louise inside and looks back at Nicole, who is looking at John. “You told me to just be -”

“You are exactly where you need to be,” she says softly, still watching John. “Do you need my help?” it’s almost a whisper as she looks up at him. His eyes are soft as they linger over John’s shoulders, down the line of his back. Blinking slowly, he looks at Nicole and hisses, “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Just be. Breathe,” she says, lips barely tilting up, toeing off her shoes and padding out the door, her hand trails softly over John’s back as she passes behind him and starts down the stairs. She drops her shirt on a lounge chair and shimmies out of her skirt, and looks up to see Sherlock standing behind John at the railing, eyes closed, just breathing.

John turns and lays his hand on Sherlock’s arm, “Nobody is looking...” he says softly.

Sherlock opens his eyes and quirks a smile, “and if they are, so what?”

John just blinks up at him, “Sherlock, if you want to swim -” he’s smiling, but the crinkle on his forehead says almost exasperated and Sherlock interrupts, asking, “Do you?”  
  
John looks back to the pool, exasperation fading to acceptance. “How is it?” he calls down. Nic is already in the water, tidy pile of clothes on the lounge chair.

“Nice,” she almost hums, treading water and looking up at them.

He turns back to Sherlock, inside by the breakfast table, shoes off and one sock in his hand. “You’re going, good -” he starts.

“Bring the towels with you?” Sherlock asks as he stands, tucking the keycard in his pocket.

John just blinks. He can still hear the music on Frenchman. “Right. Ok.” And then Sherlock is standing in front of him, brushing a soft kiss to his lips, asking, “All right?”

John’s tongue darts out quickly, wetting his bottom lip, heart tripping a beat and says, “Yes.”

He toes off his shoes as he walks to the bathroom and grabs the towels. Takes off his socks and leaves them with the pile of Sherlock’s clothes from earlier, pads out the door and lets it close with a soft _snick_ as he makes his way down the stairs. Sherlock is just finishing unbuttoning his shirt as John makes his way over, laying the towels down on the lounge chair closest to Sherlock. He looks at John intently and drapes his shirt at the end of the lounge chair. Unfastens, unzips, and sweeps trousers and pants down and off in one graceful motion, draping them over his shirt. John’s gaze travels up the line of hair under his navel, across his chest, lingering on scars, his mouth, his eyes. He blinks and Sherlock tilts his head toward the pool, using the same nod that Nicole used at him earlier. The one that asks: _Coming?_

John laughs breathlessly as he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it at the chair, undoes his jeans, pulls them down with his pants, and lays them next to Sherlock’s pile. He turns to the pool and sees Sherlock watching him, eyes dark. But it _is_ dark, and Sherlock is just standing there, so John dives into the pool, sleek as a fish. Sherlock said he understood when John told him to make it clear what he wanted to be happening and fuck it, it isn’t clear at all, but it’s the middle of the night and still hot as balls and the water is fantastic, so. He comes up in the middle, near Nic and says a goofy hello. “Hello,” she giggles back and looks over John’s shoulder in time to see Sherlock blinking water out of his eyes, “and hello.”

She maneuvers casually behind Sherlock, leaving him facing John, placing small kisses across his shoulders. Sherlock unfurls a demanding arm and pulls a confused, but unresisting, John in.

They stand there in the water, John’s ear against Sherlock’s chest, arms wrapped loosely around each other, Sherlock’s cheek resting on John’s head. He opens his eyes and sees Nicole treading water, gazing at them fondly. She quirks an eyebrow at him, and starts to move to the edge of the pool. Sherlock reaches out and pulls her behind John. She presses her lips to his shoulder, just next to a bullet scar, and looks up at Sherlock, who presses his lips on the crown of John’s head. John blinks up at him as Nic slides her hands down to his, still dropping little kisses across his shoulders as she guides his hands around Sherlock, coming in close behind him, moving one hand up the dip of Sherlock’s spine, fingers sliding up one side, his thumb dragging up the other. She draws his other hand down gently, over the curve of his bum and pulls them both that much closer to Sherlock, who ducks his head and licks a gentle kiss against John’s lips, skimming, barely touching.

John reflexively licks back saying breathless, “You want me.”

“I’ve finally managed to made it clear which way I’d like things to be going?” Sherlock rumbles, nuzzling against John’s stubble.

“By having a lovely lady put my hand on your arse and mash our cocks together?” John huffs out a laugh, “I’ve been _trying_ to step out from between you all night!”

She tightens her arms around them briefly before saying into John’s ear, “I _have been_ stepping out from between you all night. You’ve been in the flow since our breakfast, dear heart. Taking it as it comes.” She runs her hands up John’s back and murmurs against his shoulder, “you haven’t _seen_ how he’s been looking at you since ‘soulful, romantic lover’ fell out of my mouth?”

John huffs, “He always looks at me like that.” And then, “Oh.”

“Oh. Indeed.” Sherlock growls into his mouth and softly licks against John’s bottom lip and into his mouth.

John cups his hand on the delectable, plush curve of Sherlock’s arse and moves into the kiss. Sweeps the tip of his tongue across Sherlock's lush lower lip and groans as Sherlock pulls him closer, sucking his tongue into his mouth with a moan, twining their tongues together as they taste each other for the first time. Both of them humming in pleasure, they move together slowly, soft searching kisses, water lapping around them, hands sliding over slick skin, muscle. John, fingers in thick curls, tugging, licking a warm sweep along the column of Sherlock’s neck as he thrums with approval. Sherlock exhales shakily as his eyes flutter shut and he tilts his head to allow John better access. With another hum he begins to suck kisses over Sherlock’s carotid, feeling the rapid pulse with his tongue. John’s hands trail over Sherlock’s shoulders, down his back to the curve of his spine. “Come on, let’s -” John rasps against Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and looks where Nicole had left her clothes, then flick to where the towels and their clothes were. Clothes, gone but the two towels are still on the chair. He looks up and sees Nicole, their clothes draped across her arm, open the door to their room. “Let’s,” he says into John’s mouth with a final lingering kiss.

They pull themselves out of the pool, wrapping the towels around their waists, stealing small touches as they make their way up the stairs to the open door. They move into the room and Sherlock sees the keycard on the coffee table, next to Nicole’s bag, the pack of cigarettes, on top of the envelope with the case notes and photo. She’s coming out of the bathroom, toweling her hair, looking rather pleased with herself.

John pushes the door closed and pads up to her, murmuring 'thank you' against her cheek as he pulls her into a hug.

“More than welcome, dear heart. Anytime.” She’s smiling up at Sherlock as she wraps her arms up John’s back, hands squeezing his shoulders as she hugs him back.

Sherlock glides up behind John, Nicole’s hand moving to his arms as he rests his hands on her hips, thumbs pressing lightly. She squeezes his arms in reply and steps back, wrapping Sherlock’s hands around John.

There’s a whole conversation going on over his shoulder, but John just rests his head back against Sherlock and closes his eyes. She lights a smoke, taps out a few and leaves them on the table with her lighter, picks up her bag, slides into her shoes and says softly, “Bring that back to me tomorrow, yes?”

John’s eyes snap open. Her father’s lighter. “Of course we will.”

“No rush, I’m there till 6.” She kisses John’s cheek and pets Sherlock’s hair, fingers trailing down his back as she moves past them. “Have a good night,” she says with a smile.

John giggles a bit and Sherlock rumbles, “Best Night Ever?”

“I would hope so!” she says with a laugh and closes the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where the boys are staying: [The Frenchman Hotel. ](http://www.frenchmenhotel.com/) More pix [here. ](http://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g60864-d112007-Reviews-The_Frenchmen_Hotel-New_Orleans_Louisiana.html)  
> First bar is [DBA](http://dbabars.com/dbano/home) with [Linnzi Zaorski](http://www.linnzizaorski.com/discography/) on stage. Second bar is [the Spotted Cat](http://www.spottedcatmusicclub.com/) with [the New Orleans Moonshiners](http://www.neworleansmoonshiners.com/live/) on stage. The songs that the three of them are dancing to are all by Nina Simone, classic awesome.


	5. Chapter 5

John lets out a breath as the door closes behind Nic. He turns in Sherlock’s arms and looks up at his madman. “What’s all this then?” he murmurs looking up and meeting Sherlock's eyes.

“Catalyst?” Sherlock’s voice vibrates straight through John’s chest, all the way down to his toes.

“I don’t think I can be your vacation fling, Sherlock.”  John starts to pull away, but Sherlock grips him by the hips and says firmly, “That is not what is happening.” He ducks his head and nuzzles at John’s ear.  “I have been trying, all day -”

“Right. And this town, the almost drunk since 10am, the music -”

“You. All of that, just a catalyst.” Sherlock murmurs into John’s neck, trailing his lips along the thrumming vein, tip of his tongue tasting John’s pulse. “Would you take me to bed, John?”

“Christ!” John huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, “Just like that?”

Sherlock pulls John in, cool, damp bellies touching, his thumbs tracing the line of skin above John’s towel. “We can continue this conversation, John, but I would prefer to be lying down for it. And if we fall asleep, it’s convenient.”

“Hmm. Convenient.” John isn’t really sure why he hasn’t thrown Sherlock over his shoulder and tossed him on the bed already, but. He’s been burying his feeling for Sherlock for years. _Lifetimes_. It’s more difficult to fall into bed with this man than he ever thought it would be. Because it’s actually terrifying. He blinks hard at that thought. _Buggering fuck_. “Sherlock, are you sure? Because I can’t go back - I feel too - you are -”

“Everything to me, John. I died for you. I did horrible things to keep you safe. I came back for you. If you don’t know by now that I lo -”

John cuts Sherlock off with a searing kiss.The wet slide of his tongue licking into Sherlock’s mouth provokes a reflexive pull of Sherlock’s hands, his hips jerking forward as he groans into John's mouth. John stretches up on his toes and deepens the kiss, trying to convey all the love he has in his heart for this fantastic, frustrating man. With a graze of his teeth, he sucks in that plush bottom lip and runs his tongue over its generous curve, slotting their bodies closer together as he slides his left hand up into Sherlock’s wet curls, right hand pulling Sherlock close. John sucks Sherlock’s tongue, kisses him again and again, backing off as he begins to register little whimpers and moans, hot, panting breaths. “Ok.” John breathes into Sherlock’s mouth, “ok. Bed now, yeah?” Dropping back to his heels, lips and teeth against collarbone, he huffs, "Sodding giraffe."

Sherlock’s 'yes' is barely more than a hiss as he takes a step back, corner of his mouth quirking up at the epithet, his eyes raking John from tousled, wet hair to his toes, curled in the carpet with desire.

“Yes, we are ridiculously good together, so far. Let’s see how well we do lying down. ” John huffs, grinning, taking Sherlock’s hand and leading him to his bedroom. "Take me to bed, you said. If we fall asleep it's convenient. Save my fucking neck is a bigger truth."

Sherlock tugs him back around and reaches forward, his hand cupping the bulge under John's towel perfectly. "You're not actually complaining."

John’s cock jumps under his hand, "Not that you'd know anything about kissing _up_."

"Hm. True." Sherlock gives John's cock a playful squeeze, then trails his hand up to John’s shoulder then back down to the towel, hooking his fingers in. John turns and keeps walking, with a grin that is a little more than a flash of teeth, he lets Sherlock take his towel. Looking over his shoulder he sees Sherlock's eyes tracking, in data gathering mode, up his calves, his thighs, an appreciative gleam as his gaze focuses. “Running after you does great things for my arse, hm?”

Sherlock’s “Mmmm,” is more felt than heard, his voice has gone so deep.

In the bedroom, John turns to him and curls his fingers into the front of Sherlock’s precariously perched towel. His eyes scan slowly up the trail of hair, belly button, chest, collarbone, hollow above it, that glorious throat, luscious mouth swollen and pink, and meets Sherlock’s shining eyes.  Tugging gently, he drops the towel to the floor and has to swallow over the rush of saliva, because honestly. He's imagined Sherlock naked; he's fantasized, with his hand on his own cock, about what was hidden under those tailored trousers and hinted at in the soft pyjama bottoms. Of course this beautiful man would have a beautiful prick. Long and slim, the rosy pink tip the exact color of his lips.

Sherlock ducks his head, flushing at John's appreciative gaze, and pulls back the duvet, crawling onto the big bed. “So fucking gorgeous,” John breathes almost reverently as he climbs in beside him. Sherlock turns and reaches out, sliding down and guiding John above him. Long-fingered hands skim down John’s back and latch onto his hips, pulling him hard against Sherlock's own. A rumbling purr vibrates between their chests as John slowly drags his cock up the length of Sherlock’s.

John looks down at Sherlock, registering the widening pupils, the accelerated breathing, the pulse jumping at his throat, "So, not alarming then?"

"Terrifying. Exhilarating," Sherlock says on an exhale. "I wanted. I didn't understand what I wanted. I do now." His time away from John, eradicating Moriarty’s web, was just like battle, strangely mirroring his life with John. Brief moments of surging adrenaline and bloody mayhem interspersed with long periods of time where he had nothing to do but think. Sherlock wraps his legs around John's, holding him close, and glides his hands up from the small of John’s back, palms pressing against ribs, fingers trailing in the divot of his spine and curling around his strong shoulders and down his muscled arms. His nails trail down John’s ribs and he slides his hands around to grasp his arse, pulling him in and holding him flush, unable and unwilling to stop his hips rocking up into John.

John's body reacts to the words as much as Sherlock's physical responses, rocking back, the drag of their cocks and feel of their bellies pressing together almost overwhelming, but his brain won’t let him lose himself in the sensations. He takes his time, kissing Sherlock softly, discovering the tastes and textures of his mouth. Savouring each moment. He’s wanted this for so long, worked so hard to bury these feelings, never thinking he could have Sherlock like this.  This moment is surreal, as if he'd slipped into one of his fantasies: naked, in bed with a willing, eager Sherlock.  It almost feels like a dream.

"God, Sherlock. You just don't know -"

"I do, John. I do know."

In those long periods of thought, during his time _away_ ,  he finally allowed himself to explore the depths of his feelings for his blogger, his flatmate, his colleague, his friend, his partner. Sexual attraction, for him, was a long, slow, simmering thing that only ever happened after his mind, and heart, were fully captured. Sex itself was a messy business, usually not worth the attachment issues brought on by brain chemistry in random partners. But this. Sherlock revels in the sensations and gives himself up to the chemistry. His love for John was years in the making. John’s love for him is undeniable. Obvious.

Sherlock is gathering data with his entire body: the way John’s legs feel as Sherlock wraps his long limbs around them and drags his heels up the backs; the intriguing texture of John’s scar under his lips and tasting tongue. His hands are never still as he writhes under John, trying to make and keep as many points of contact as he possibly can. It is still a soldier’s body, just a little soft around the middle.  

John smiles softly down at him and kisses him again, gentle, undemanding, and Sherlock realises he is making tiny noises in his throat, hums of pleasure and whimpers as his writhing brings their cocks out of alignment. Sherlock runs his fingers over the back of John’s neck and up into his hair, cradling the back of his head as he pulls him in for a more demanding kiss.

Still damp from the pool, sweat and pre-ejaculate on their bellies, the slick slide is delicious and John never wants it to end, but at the same time he wants _more_. Licking sucking kisses down Sherlock’s neck, he presses himself back and grins down at Sherlock’s discontented whimper, if any noise that deep could be called a whimper. He nuzzles across Sherlock’s chest, dragging his cheek and chin against Sherlock’s nipples, stubble already pinking the pale skin. He grazes his teeth over, then sucks in a nipple and can’t help the grin as Sherlock cries out and his hips jerk up reflexively.

“So that’s a hot spot. What else do you like?” John’s tenor has deepened and his voice vibrates pleasantly against Sherlock’s skin.

“I have no idea,” Sherlock rumbles. “Everything,” he breathes as he arches up against John.

John is rasping his chin and cheek across Sherlock’s ribs, licking kisses and breathing in Sherlock’s musky, spicy scent. “No idea? Surely you’ve...” John trails off as he licks a kiss into Sherlock’s belly button, sucking lightly, his hands gently brushing Sherlock’s ribs, his sides, his waist.

Sherlock gasps and jerks away from the tickling right hand only to push himself harder into the tickling left. “That!” He laughs out a breath. “That.”

“This?” John grins through soft kisses and lightly drags his cheek down Sherlock’s waist, fingertips barely tracing his skin as they brush from Sherlock’s hip to his thigh to the backs of his knees, giggling as Sherlock thrashes against the bed, panting 'yes,' and 'that,' through the smile on his face.

John experiments, unsure if it is the rasp of stubble or his fingertips that are more pleasing on Sherlock’s impossibly soft skin. Skimming blunt nails up Sherlock’s sides, John nuzzles into Sherlock’s armpit, lips moving across the hair as he says, “We’re going to need to start a journal. Experiments in tickling.”

“Controlling all the variables will be difficult -” Sherlock gasps and bucks as John bites softly at the muscle.

“I trust you to keep me from committing shoddy methodology.” John grins as he nips and sucks and takes deep wuffling breaths, following Sherlock’s writhing body. He drags his chin down and across Sherlock’s belly to bite at his waist on the opposite side.  

“You really shouldn’t,” Sherlock laughs, “I think it’s the anticipation, the unexpectedness, as much as the sensation that I find so pleasurable.”

“Say that again: pleasurable.”

“Pleasurable,” Sherlock rumbles as he arches and twists, trying to create more points of contact. “Being in your bed is every bit as pleasurable as I imagined, John.”

“Oh, you imagined, did you?” John presses a kiss just below Sherlock's belly button, licking the sparse trail of hair into disarray, then scoots down the bed and wraps his hand around Sherlock's ankle looking up the length of Sherlock from between his legs. Sherlock is sprawled out like a starfish in the center of the bed, skin flushed, cock a graceful curve, glans glistening and pink under the retracted foreskin. John leans down and licks a gentle stripe to the inside of Sherlock's knee, hooks his bottom teeth into the muscle and sucks, tongue darting into the crease behind his knee.

“I did,” Sherlock says with a sigh. “Kiss me, John.”

“I am,” John replies, sucking kisses down Sherlock's calf, dragging his cheeks, stubble rasping against the hairs on Sherlock's leg.

“My _mouth_ , John. I want your mouth on mine. I want to feel all of you. I want -” he cuts off with a gasp, a strangled noise caught in his throat as John bites softly at the arch of his foot.

"Yes? You want?"

Sherlock whispers, "That. Do that," as John rasps his chin along the bottom of Sherlock's foot. His leg is twitching, toes furling and unfurling at the sensations.   

John bites at the ball of Sherlock's foot, licking kisses after each bite, and can't help but grin at Sherlock's squirming, when his flexing toes tap his nose. "These damn toes. Fidgety. Distracting things," he growls and sucks the middle two into his mouth, tongue curling along the bottom.

Sherlock writhes across the bed, giggling helplessly as John grasps his ankle and draws his toes firmly into that wet heat. "How? Why?" Sherlock gasps.

"I never thought to see you like this," John murmurs against the arch of his foot, nuzzling, his prickling stubble causing a barely contained flail. "Happy in bed," he moves up and buries his nose in the crisp hairs at Sherlock's groin, "Joyful," huffing a deep breath of this glorious man, eyes tightly closed, trying to memorize everything he is feeling.  Taking another deep breath he drags his nose up Sherlock's shaft, and presses the flat of his tongue to the frenulum.

"John!"

"My name in your mouth, like that," he murmurs against the crown and sucks in the tip, tongue caressing the foreskin.

"John," Sherlock whimpers, "I'm too close."

John looks up and sees Sherlock, back arched, the long line of his throat, head tilted back, hair a frantic black halo as he grinds his head against the pillow. He drags his chest over Sherlock’s cock, moving up the length of his body slowly, brushing his chest against Sherlock’s nipples. He nestles their cocks together, rocking his hips gently, spreading their pre-ejaculate and easing the slide. Resting on his elbows John traces that absurd cupid's bow, the dip of Sherlock’s philtrum, strokes the lush bottom lip.

“You are ridiculously beautiful,” John murmurs. Sherlock sucks the pad of John’s thumb into his mouth and John can’t help but groan as his hips buck, sliding their cocks together. Sherlock hums and sucks John’s thumb in deeper, his tongue tracing the whorls of his fingerprint, rocking his hips up, grinding into the delicious friction.

He wraps his legs around John’s, hands gripping his arse, pulling them closer together, undulating against John’s rocking, releasing his thumb and arching up, capturing John’s mouth again, licking his way inside with a groan.

With their bodies pressed tightly together, John cradles Sherlock’s head in his hands and finally gives himself over to the sensations. This brilliant man, writhing and wanton beneath him, his gentle thrusting becoming more urgent, is utterly captivating and more stunningly beautiful in his primal desire than he ever could have imagined. John tightens one hand into a fist, damp curls entwined in his grasp, his other hand gripping Sherlock’s neck, and makes long, deep, grinding thrusts as Sherlock fellates his tongue with the same rhythm as his hips. Sherlock’s moans vibrate through their bodies, urging John to push harder, faster, with his grip tightening on John’s arse.

Sherlock breathes into John’s mouth, “Yes. _Yesss_ ,” his voice breaking as he clutches John closer.

“So beautiful. So amazing. Christ,” John groans into Sherlock’s neck. “Brilliant, beautiful, mad bastard.”

“ _John_ ,”  Sherlock gasps, his muscles tensing, bollocks tightening against his body. He is lost in the steady build of his climax and pressing up off the bed, shuddering, shaking breaths, as they chase their completion, then fall apart, together. Sherlock can feel John’s cock pulsing against his belly, his breath is ragged against Sherlock’s jaw as their thrusts gentle. Sherlock turns his head to nuzzle at John’s neck, breathing deeply and humming on his exhale, lips pressed to John’s fluttering pulse.

John nuzzles back, loosening his grip on Sherlock’s hair, stroking sweaty tendrils back off his forehead. Smiling into Sherlock’s neck he says, “Ok, so. Yes, we are also ridiculously good together lying down.”

“Knew we would be.” Sherlock’s rumble is just on this side of smug.

“Did you, now?” John asks, pressing himself up and looking down into Sherlock’s eyes.

“We’ve always been good together.”  Sherlock’s arms tighten briefly around John, then he strokes down John’s back, shoulders to arse, patting lightly as he tips John off to the side.

“Oi! Already throwing your lover over? I see how you are!” John chuckles and grimaces as he drags his fingers across his belly.

“Getting a flannel for my lover. Cold ejaculate is disgusting,” Sherlock says over his shoulder as he slides off the bed and walks to the bath.

“Your lover.” John grins and settles back into the pillows, arms tucked behind his head. He hears Sherlock cleaning himself up, water running. “What a difference a day makes.”

Sherlock crawls back on the bed and cleans John up with the warm cloth.

“If you only ever clean one thing, at least it’s me.” John reaches out and pets Sherlock’s curls.

“I’ll remember you said that,” Sherlock says with a smirk, tossing the flannel off the side of the bed. He reaches down and draws the duvet up over them, snuggling into John’s side. “All right?” he asks.

Wrapping his arms around lanky shoulders, John murmurs, “More than.”

Sherlock hums, “Dopamine, oxytocin, vasopressin.”

John kisses Sherlock’s head.  “Piles of it,” he says into Sherlock’s hair, pressing another kiss.

“Get the light, John.”

“Yes, dear,” is the smiling reply.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Ap 30, 2014: It occurs to me that my use of 'shoddy methodology' is probably directly related to [Winter_of_our_Discontent's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent) delightful fic, [Pseudoscience](http://archiveofourown.org/works/449439). I hope that's ok, Winter!)


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock usually wakes up all at once. This morning he wakes up slowly, first becoming aware of the sweet, spicy scent that is John, then the warmth of that sturdy body spooned up against his front. John’s arse is nestled in the cradle of his thighs and completely unaware of Sherlock’s hard cock lightly thumping an inquiring, _‘let me in?’_  Sherlock stretches the arm under the pillows down and splays his hand across John’s chest, his other hand lightly petting John’s belly, fingertips exploring the two different hair textures. They lie this way for a while, breathing in tandem, before his hand’s erratic path brushes his knuckles against John’s cock, causing a reflexive thrust forward and a small grind back into Sherlock’s cock. So, _not completely unaware_. Sherlock rolls one of John’s nipples between his fingers as his hips move against John, who is pressing back with small thrusts. He trails his fingers up John’s shaft, thumb catching the foreskin as he twists his hand around to make a proper fist and draws John’s foreskin back, exposing the glans in a light, downward stroke. They rock into each other, soft breaths becoming sighs and moans as their movement becomes more determined.

“God, Sherlock. Yes.” John’s rumbly whisper, “Good morning.”

“Good morning John,” Sherlock drawls with a squeeze on John’s cock, pushing his hips forward as he slides his fist down to the base.

John reaches behind and grips Sherlock’s hip, rocking into his hot fist and grinding back on his cock.  “Yes,” John breathes as his bollocks draw up, “Right there. Just... like... that,” and he begins to pulse, warm and slick, into Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock is still rocking against him as he wipes his hand on the sheet then grips John’s hip. John presses back once then shifts to roll over and pulls Sherlock in tight, sucking kisses across his collarbone. “Good morning.” Kiss. “Good morning.” Kiss. “Good morning.” Sherlock thrusts and writhes against him with each kiss, humming his pleasure.

John scoots down and rolls Sherlock’s nipple against his teeth with his tongue, sucking deeply as Sherlock grinds against him and gasps, “Yes.” Another suck and John scoots further down, nuzzling kisses and licks over Sherlock’s chest and belly, still holding Sherlock firmly by the hip. “Yes?” he asks, drawing his nose up Sherlock’s cock and breathing in his spicy musk.

Sherlock snorts back a laugh.   “I’m going to come in approximately four seconds no matter where your mouth is, John.”

“That’s a yes, then.” John grins and sucks Sherlock down, gripping his hip against the reflexive buck. John pulls back slowly, cheeks hollowing with the suction, pressing his tongue along the underside and flicking across the tip at Sherlock’s groan. He draws him in again, tongue caressing, learning the textures of Sherlock’s prick, savouring this moment, one of his many fantasies come to life.  He hums his approval and rocks Sherlock purposefully into his mouth, guiding him with a hand on his hip, faster, deeper.  He hums again as Sherlock gasps, long fingers tightening in his short hair and swallows the slick, earthy ejaculate with each of Sherlock’s pulses, riding the aftershocks rippling through his long frame.

John pulls off with a last lick and a kiss to the tip and snuggles back up to the pillow. “Good morning,” he says, eyes sparkling, grin quirking at the corners of his swollen, reddened lips.     

Sherlock cradles John’s face in his hand, thumb rasping against the stubble on his jaw. “It is,” Sherlock says and brushes his lips against John’s, breathing in his exhalations, tasting himself. He rasps their cheeks together and comes back for another kiss, sucking John’s lip and licking into his mouth. “I like the way we taste.”

John laughs at that.  “Lucky us, I do too.” Marvelling a little at the easy intimacy, he pats Sherlock’s arse as he rolls over and off the bed. “All right, what’s on for today?” he asks, walking to the loo.

Sherlock watches John move, relaxed, hint of a swagger. Happy. He lets out a contented groan as he stretches, arching off the bed, luxuriating a bit in the wash of sex chemicals in his blood, his brain. His left-sided smile quirks as he realizes John left the door open. _To hear my reply, or indicative of our intimacy? Both, probably._  He grins at the thought. ‘What a difference a day makes,’ indeed. He calls, loud enough to be heard over water on water, “Breakfast. Bring Nicole her lighter, find out about Louise. Local crustaceans at the R Bar -” Sherlock trails off as John crawls back in bed, propping himself up on an elbow.

“Find out about Louise?” John asks.  “Did Nic say something?”  

“She looked at the photo when you and I were coming up from the pool. She has something to say, but I don’t know what it is,” Sherlock replies.

“Well, that’s something. What time is it? She’s there at 10, right?”

Sherlock brushes his lips against John’s and hops out of bed, saying over his shoulder, “We have time for coffee. Grab a muffin at that coffee shop, or do you want to walk and have eggs?” The last bit echoes off the tiles in the bath.

John giggles a bit at Sherlock leaving the door open. _Is he just following my example or is this another amazingly comfortable new thing between us, like the morning orgasms and snogging?_ John never would have figured Sherlock for a snuggler, but falling asleep cradled in the man’s arms felt completely natural. He’d spent so much time squashing his feelings to the side, trying to bury them deep enough so Sherlock would never see, become uncomfortable, distance himself from John because of his _sentiment_ , something Sherlock had always regarded with derision. He’s never really allowed himself to fantasize about what it would be like if they were together. This Sherlock, under the influence of New Orleans, is apparently a Sherlock completely comfortable kissing John in passing on a crowded dance floor, and after a blow job. Not that that is entirely surprising, what with the lying about the flat in pyjamas for days and the general wreckage that is their kitchen and sitting room.  For all Sherlock dresses like a model most of the time, he really isn’t what one would call fastidious. Except when it comes to cases, and his experiments, then he is meticulous. John is grinning over the living contradiction that is Sherlock as he watches the man walk by the bedroom and into the small kitchen. 

He calls out, “You’re making coffee then? Use the one with the chicory.”

“Local flavor coffee, local flavor sandwich, local flavor crustaceans. We are going to try some today, yes?” Sherlock asks, voice barely raised but carrying well enough.

“What was that place you said? They have them at a bar?” John is trying to decide whether or not to get up. They really should both shower. Shave? Sherlock seems to enjoy the feel of his stubble rasping across his skin. He scrubs his hands across his face, getting the blood flowing and testing to see if he feels like he looks homeless.

“Nicole said last night when I mentioned them, the ‘R Bar does a free thing.’ That was before she saw the photo of Louise. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the case, but she did seem to be indicating that she would like to take us there.” Sherlock walks back into the bedroom, hair a wild tangle, pillow crease on his face. He is beautiful, like a statue of some god, or David.

“Why do the statues of blokes always have such small cocks?” John ponders, aloud apparently.

Sherlock huffs a bit, scooting onto the bed. “You like my cock.”

John grins at the perfect enunciation of such a base word, “We’ve entered the John Tells Sherlock He’s Amazing portion of the day, then?”

“If you like.” Sherlock’s eyes crinkle as he stretches out, grinning up at John.

 

~~

 

The boys are wandering back from St. Ann toward Esplanade, feeling fat and happy after breakfast at Stanley. John was a little hesitant over the fried oysters that came with the Eggs Stanley, so he went with the Eggs Stella. The softshell crab was delicious. Sherlock inhaled his Bananas Foster French Toast, so John wasn’t about to complain over the ‘tourist prices.’ He’d have to ask Nic for some local suggestions though.  Mycroft had set them up with an expense account, but still. His thrifty Scot self cringed at his $19 eggs.

“Stop it.” Sherlock hooked his arm in John’s elbow, pulling him close. “Food is a legitimate expense. As is our room, and the $50s we left at the bars last night.”

“I know, Sherlock. You might be used to throwing money around like nothing, but I feel a little over-indulgent.” John tries not to think about Sherlock’s sensual moans over the ice cream and sauce on the French Toast, then grins at the realization that now he can.

“Should I have asked to take away some of that Foster’s sauce?” Sherlock asks, eyes twinkling.  

John is absolutely not blushing as he says, “Buy the ingredients, cook some up at the hotel?”

“Experiment with different liqueurs. Maybe amaretto.” Sherlock is licking his lips and John finds himself doing the same.

 

~~

 

As they cross Esplanade, they can hear Earth, Wind and Fire’s ‘September’ coming from Checkpoint Charlie. The tall windows are open, shutters pinned back.  There’s a couple with Bloody Marys sitting at one of the window tables and the crack of pool balls carries over the music.

John grins up at Sherlock, “Sounds like a good morning.”

“We can’t be the only ones who woke up well today,” Sherlock drawls, causing John to choke on his laughter as they walk in the open doors.

It’s a good crowd. In addition to the couple in the window and the couple playing pool, there is a small group at the bar in front of the grill with duffels of what appears to be laundry at their feet. Nicole is giving the bar a quick wipe before setting down their plates as the boys sit in their same places as yesterday.

She glides up between them, arms around their waists, squeezing lightly as she looks first at Sherlock then John, asking, “Good morning?”

John’s smile is radiant as he leans in and kisses her cheek. “Very.”  

Sherlock takes her hand and presses her Zippo into it, holding hers in both of his.  “Thank you.”

Those two words are full of so much emotion that she can barely breathe. “My pleasure,” she whispers, resting her forehead against Sherlock’s.

She takes a step back and looks them both up and down, grinning at the subtle change in body language. They are sitting closer together than yesterday, Sherlock sitting open legged, feet resting on John’s barstool. “Happy to be of service,” she beams at them both, walking behind the bar and is still grinning as she flips coasters down in front of them. “What kind of day is it then?”

Sherlock drags his eyes from John’s profile and meets Nicole’s grin. “You tell us. It worked well enough yesterday.”

John coughs “Understatement” as she pours coffee into two mugs, setting them on the coasters.

“All right. You’ve had your breakfast, and there’s plenty to see and do before they drop the first basket of crawfish at the R Bar - that’s around 4, sometimes 5. I get off at 6, but we probably won’t run into your Louise until closer to 9, possibly much later.”

Sherlock turns on his stool so he is facing Nicole as John says, “You did recognize her!”

She nods. “I did. But I’m not saying any more than that right now.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Why not? What do you know?”

“I know a lot of things,” she says primly, “but about this I know that she hasn’t been kidnapped. If she isn’t in contact with her parents, it isn’t because she is unable.”

Sherlock huffs and takes a sip of his coffee. “But you will take us to meet her.”

“I’ll take you up the street tonight. We know the same people. If she is out, we’ll find her.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“I’ll let my friends know I’d like to see her. She’ll get the message and find me. Call me.” She shrugs. “If it doesn’t come together tonight, it will come together soon enough.”

John leans forward, elbows on the bar, “You’re sure she’s safe?”

“She’s as safe as she wants to be.” She gives a firm nod and moves down the bar to get refills for the group doing laundry.

“What do you think, Sherlock?”

“She has a reason for taking us ‘up the street.’ I’m inclined to trust her, and not just because I’m feeling shatteringly grateful,” his voice drops to a rumbling whisper on the last two words.

John lifts his hand to Sherlock's fringe, wiping the sweat that is already starting at his brow. “Shatteringly, hmm?”

Sherlock rubs his head into John’s palm, takes it in his hand and places a soft, chaste kiss there, humming an affirmative.

She comes back to them, a pleased smile quirking her lips, eyes sparkling. “You’ve decided then?”

John lets his hand trail down Sherlock’s arm, fingers skipping and skidding over his forearm where the shirt is rolled up to the elbows. He gives a nod to Nic saying, “Right. You tell us. What kind of day is it?”    

“Wander around, enjoy my city, and I’ll take you up the street after I get off?”

“Sounds good to me. Sherlock?”

“You were more specific yesterday. Is there a Best Day Ever part two?”

She laughs. “My Best Day After usually involves delivery and not getting out of bed for much else. But here you are, all ...dressed.” The word dressed has probably never sounded so disappointed.

“Our room doesn’t have delivery menus in,” Sherlock states, as if that is the only reason they left the room.

“Oh, you only need the one. Hang on a sec.”

As she turns to the drawer beside the register and riffles through the notepads, pens, and menus of various sizes, John asks, not holding back on his grin, “Is that what we are doing today?”

“It’s good to have options.” Nic holds out the tri-folded piece of paper and John takes it; there is a pen sketch of a storefront on the cover, a bicycle with a basket leaning on a lampost. He opens it and skims the page, his eyes stuttering somewhere around the Specialty Sandwiches. “All That Jazz can easily feed two. The best thing about Verti Marte is that it’s also a bit of a convenience store, so you can place an order for a sandwich, a pint of ice cream, a tube of Pringles, pack of cigarettes, box of condoms. They’ll deliver anything they carry, as long as the order fits in a bike basket.”

John chokes a little but Sherlock says, “This isn’t far from here? We can walk there?”

“Well, yes. You want to scout it out first? So you know what to order?” She asks, grinning.

“Obviously.”

Nic looks them over and says, “You aren’t going to be comfortable for long wearing that.” She eyeballs Sherlock’s dress shirt and slacks, John’s jeans and another hideous check shirt. She rummages in the cupboard beneath the coffee pot, comes out with a long scrap of ribbed white cloth and a faded brown t-shirt. Coming out from behind the bar she says to Sherlock, “Stand up, let me fix you.”

“I wasn’t aware I was broken.”

She says, “You will be if you think you’re going to be outside all day and keep up with me tonight!” as she deftly unbuttons his shirt, to his arched eyebrow.

“Nicole, while I am flattered by your interest, I should tell you -”

John snorts and giggles.

“Shut it. Here.”  She presses the well worn undershirt into his hands. “Put this on, under yours. If you leave it open you will catch the slightest breeze and stay much cooler.”

John is holding up his brown shirt, thin and soft from many washings. Sherlock reads ‘I aim to misbehave’ across the back as Nicole declares, hands on hips, “Please give me your shirt, John. I’ll burn it.”

Sherlock snorts a little laugh and asks, “Nicole, why are you dressing us in your lovers’ clothing?”

“How much did you sweat yesterday, Sherlock? Fifty bucks says your shirt was soaked through before you got to Central Grocery.”

John’s eyes glaze over a little, recalling the translucent stripes and the sweat pooling at Sherlock’s collar bone.

“See?” She nudges Sherlock with her hip, eyes on John, twinkling with mirth. “If you two plan on being out and about today, and running the streets with me tonight, you’ll do as I say.”

 

~~

 

Kitted out and looking more like locals than tourists, John and Sherlock nurse their now Jameson and coffees while Nic serves up another set of Bloody Marys for the window couple and starts a batch of what might actually be passable Sangria.

“Can you be trusted not to buy an alligator head if I send you to the Market for oranges?” She asks Sherlock with a grin.

Sherlock tries to look affronted, but John laughs, “How do you know him so well already?”

“Oh, he’s easy. You’re the puzzle, John.” Her eyes go a little soft as they rest on the regimental tattoo peeking out from under the t-shirt.

John shifts on his barstool, “No I’m not.”

Sherlock leans in, his voice full of dark promise. “Yes, you are. Endlessly fascinating.”

John licks his lips and meets Sherlock’s eyes. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

Those two words ring with so much more meaning than John expected to hear. He sits, a bit stunned.

“We’ll get your oranges. Limes too, or are you going to use the Rose’s?” Sherlock asks.

“Both, but I have lemons, and limes.” She turns to get money out of the register, “Bring me back the receipt, so I can put it in the drawer, will you?”

“No. We’ll get them,” Sherlock says, standing. “Walk with me, John?”

“Sure. Sure.” John finishes his coffee and turns to Sherlock. “No alligator heads.”

“Not this time, at least.” Nic giggles. “You can do your souvenir shopping later. The Market isn’t going anywhere. And thank you.”

“It’s the least we can do,” Sherlock states, meeting her eyes. John looks from one to the other, smiling when he sees Sherlock’s lips quirk up as he gives her a head nod that feels like a bow. He shakes out his shirt tails, wafting a breeze up his back. “I don’t usually wear a vest, but this makes sense.”

“Of course it does. I’m a sensible girl. Sometimes.” She grins at them both, flapping her hands in a shooing motion. “Come right back, then you can go play. Oh! Wait. Have you got a handkerchief?” She drops to rummage around in the under cabinet again, “Nevermind!” she calls, “Go on and come back. I’ve got what I need.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I do have a handkerchief.”

“We’ll be right back,” John calls, guiding Sherlock to the door, “hopefully without any taxidermy.”

They walk out onto the pavement, wincing a little at both the heat and the sunlight.

 

~~

 

John is trailing his fingers on a wrought iron fence as they walk up to the Market. Sherlock begins to recite, “Built in 1835, the Old U.S. Mint is the only building in America to have served both as a United States and a Confederate Mint.”

John chuckles and gives Sherlock a little hip check. “You going to save that or delete it like the solar system?”

“Delete it,” Sherlock confirms, and adds solemnly, “I put the solar system back.”

“You did? Even Pluto? Wait. Why?”

“Even Pluto, with an asterisk.” Sherlock looks down at John, eyes crinkling. “Sentiment.”

“Every time I looked at the stars, I thought of you.” John’s voice is almost too soft to hear over the bustle of the street.

“As did I. It was a comfort, knowing we were looking at the same stars.”

John takes Sherlock's hand, giving it a squeeze. He brings it up to his lips and brushes a kiss across Sherlock’s knuckles as they step into the shade of the French Market. “Sunglasses, two pair for $5, Sherlock?” John asks in a teasing sing-song, gesturing with their joined hands at the display of gaudy, cheap plastic.

“Thank you, nooo,” Sherlock drawls

“What about socks? Three pair for $5. Oh, bandanas, and handkerchiefs, also three for five. Why do you think she asked if we had a handkerchief?”

“Spices for the sangria?” Sherlock shrugs. “She said she had what she needed though.”

“All right.” The Market is crowded and John steps in front of Sherlock, still holding his hand as they wind their way past vendors selling handbags and t-shirts, pen and ink art, photographs, watches and jewelry, CDs, hand blown glass pipes, and yes, alligator heads of various sizes along with baskets of their teeth. “Christ. Look at all this stuff.”

“We’re not halfway to the food area. Do you want to step out and walk around?”

“No, we didn’t bring sunscreen. It’s blistering out there. Unless you want to take freckles home as a souvenir?”

“We could buy some ugly hats,” Sherlock suggests, nodding at a table display of ballcaps emblazoned with ‘Show Your Tits’ and ‘Who Dat.’

“You’re joking.” John stops dead and a lady about Mrs. Hudson’s age pats Sherlock’s bum in passing.

“Yes, John. I am joking. There are much nicer hats three booths up.”

“Giraffe,” John says with a smile in his voice.

 

They eventually make it to the fresh fruit and veg, Sherlock taking the lead and dragging John behind him past the jams and preserves stating, “We will buy things after we solve the case, John.”

“But there was persimmon. And jalapeño! What do you even eat with jalapeño jam?”

“I’m sure you’ll find something,” Sherlock mutters as they come to a stop in front of a display of oranges, lemons, and limes.

 

~~

 

They walk back to Checkpoint on the open air side of the Market. Colorful dresses, dashikis, men’s shirts, and sarongs blowing in the slight breeze off the river, along with Sherlock’s shirt tails. “That looks really comfortable Sherlock. I should get a pack of those vests, and hrm.” John slows his walk at a riotous display of men’s shirts.

Sherlock stops, cocking his head at the display. “Oh, that’s appropriate.” He continues at John’s inquiring look, “You made me watch that show, that Space Western. The pilot wore horrible shirts like these.”

“You didn’t delete Firefly?” John asks, grinning. “Wait, why is it appropriate?”

“You are wearing the t-shirt.” Sherlock runs his fingers across the cracked print on the back, reading: _“I aim to misbehave.”_

John looks down at the faded, plain brown front of the shirt. “Huh. So I am. C’mon then. Help me pick out a couple of the most obnoxious ones.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but steps up to the racks, flicking through to John’s size. “This one, this, and this. I’ll go get the vests and meet you at the fence,” jutting his chin in the direction of the Old Mint.

“All right.” John grins up at Sherlock as he takes the shirts and pulls his wallet out of his pocket.  

 

~~

 

The Commodores ‘Lady’ can be heard coming from Checkpoint from a block away and John’s gait automatically alters to walk to the beat. “Sounds like the good morning is still going strong,” John says over his shoulder, and Sherlock is certain the smile on his face as he watches John saunter into the bar is _undeniably fond_. ‘Disco Inferno’ starts as John places his bags on the bar. The group doing laundry is still at the grill end of the bar, both pool tables are in use by some heavily tattooed men and women, and both window tables are occupied by couples.

Nicole takes the bag with the fruit, asking,“What’s all this?” gesturing to the extra bags as Sherlock places his next to John’s.

“You’ll love it, wait!” John says around his giggles. He selects the most obnoxious print and pulls it on over the brown t-shirt. “Who am I?”

Nic claps her hands and does a little jump, “Oh Wash!  You’re a leaf on the wind.”

“Watch how I soar!” John exclaims, doing a pirouette.

“Good thing I left the harpoon back at Baker Street,” Sherlock quips.

“Oooh Sherlock, cruel,” Nicole groans. Looking entirely crushed, she moves to the other end of the bar shaking her head and checks on the laundry group.

Turning back from her, John looks up at Sherlock asking, “Wait, we didn’t watch Serenity together. Just Firefly.”

Caught, Sherlock says sadly, “I may have watched it... while I was _away_.”

“Oh Sherlock.” John’s heart is in his voice as he pulls Sherlock into a fierce hug.

Sherlock hugs him back, pressing a kiss to John’s hair, saying softly, “There wasn’t a day that I did not think of you.”

John huffs, “Obviously, what with putting the solar system back and watching SciFi films. What else? Did you carry a shirt of mine with you?”

Sherlock startles, and John tips up on his toes, brushing a kiss against Sherlock’s lips. “Of course you did. Mad bastard.”

Nic is making change for the group at the other end of the bar, serving them a pitcher and fresh glasses. John calls over to them, “Are there any open machines?”

A man about their age with thin, long brown hair answers, “I’m about to move two loads over. Better snag them quick if you want them.”

Nic walks back to them saying, “Two loads, or you want to see what interesting shade you create for the wife beaters?”

“Wife, what? No.” John stutters.

Nic quirks up a smile, “The undershirts. That’s what’s in the other bag, yes?”

“What a horrible thing to call them,” John mutters. “Yes, two loads. I’ll keep my vests white as long as I can, thank you,” he adds.

Nic pours a handful of quarters into John’s hand, “There’s detergent back here, it’s a dollar, dryer sheets, too. Wash is two dollars, dry is also. Get a move on, I don’t know if anyone’s been camping out back there, waiting.”

John scoops up the bags and heads to the laundrette in back. Nicole tips her head at the bottle of Jameson and Sherlock nods in reply. She pours them Jameson and soda, swipes the lemon on the rim and squeezes it in. “About that handkerchief...” she begins and at Sherlock’s questioning eyebrow continues, “there’s tricks, to handling the heat. If you like?”

Sherlock nods, curious, and she goes back into the cupboard beneath the coffee pot, returns with a bandana and a bottle of ...mouthwash? She wets the bandana over the sink and pours some of the mouthwash on, the smell of peppermint wafts toward him. She wrings it out a bit and comes around the bar, placing the bottle of mouthwash in Sherlock’s hand. As he reads the Dr. Tichenor’s label (topical antiseptic, dilute with five parts water for mouthwash), she swipes the bandana over his throat and chest above his vest, he startles a bit, but then settles as she places the cloth around the back of his neck. “How’s that?” she asks, smiling as his eyes close and he hums, the vibration deep in his chest.

“Wrists, too, I would think,” Sherlock rumbles.

“Anywhere you like, really. Well, within reason,” she adds with a wink. “Backs of knees, feet too, are especially enjoyable.”

“Yes, they are.” Sherlock’s smirk is a little wobbly.

“Just be happy. Do what feels good and feel good doing it.” She brushes his curls back off his forehead, the mint on her fingertips cooling his brow. “There’s no shame in taking pleasure, in using your body to give pleasure. Just pay attention. His gasps, his moans, how his body moves.”

“Observation is decidedly difficult when I can’t think.” Sherlock retorts.

“Giving is much different from receiving, you’ll find,” she soothes with a tug on the bandana. She lets him think on that as she checks on the other patrons, wiping tables with the towel hanging from her hip and collecting empty glasses. By the time she gets back, John has returned and is smiling softly at Sherlock, eyes moving between his face and his hands, as Sherlock swipes the bandana over John’s wrists and inside his elbows. She gives him a wink in passing, draining the sink then dropping sanitizer tablets for the new water. They aren’t reading from different chapters of the same book anymore, she smiles to herself, wondering what surprising bit of lovemaking John did to Sherlock’s feet.  But then, Sherlock doesn’t feel like someone who has opened himself up to love before, so this is all going to be at least a bit surprising.

Knowing who their ‘Louise’ is makes the evening plans easy and at the same time rather difficult. It would have been so much easier to do this on a Friday or Saturday night, but Sundays aren’t so bad. There’s two conventions wrapping up, and the responsible sort will have left the bulk of their play for after. The difficult part will be being in the right place at the right time. They could miss her by minutes and not see her for hours, depending on the kind of time her clients want to spend. What she told them earlier is true. She is as as safe as she wants to be. Working through an agency, especially one like Jack’s, with a screening process and someone working the phone who makes an effort to match up clients with the best available person, removes a lot of the risk that independent sex workers live with. She debated calling and booking time for them, eventually deciding that all things considered, it might be easier for everyone involved if they met her first in a neutral environment.

Glasses washed, she looks up and sees John pull Sherlock, barstool and all, into the space between his knees. They are a perfect blend of old married and lustful teenagers. Seeing no reason to keep them here, other than the obvious, she offers: “You don’t have to wait here, you know. I could bring your shirts by when I get off.”

John opens his mouth, but before he can say anything Sherlock asks him, “Best Day After?”

“Sounds like a plan,” John agrees. Turning to Nic, he says, “Thank you. That’s very kind, and not at all your job description.”

“Just giving the customers what they want,” she grins. “Seeing you happy makes me happy.” She moves to the other end of the bar, carrying a cutting board and knife back, adding, “We’ll catch up around 6, do crawfish at the R Bar then head up the street. Go on, do things, be happy.”

Sherlock meets her eyes over John’s head as he considers the cash in his wallet and places a few bills on the bar. “And this?” He asks, making a small gesture to the bottle of Dr. Tichenor’s still sitting on the bar.

“I got it for you. It’s yours, if you like.”

“Oh, we like!” John says with a laugh, picking up the bottle and taking Sherlock’s hand. “Ta, for this, and the lesson.”

“My pleasure,” she says, watching them leave, slicing oranges and dropping them into the Sangria.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s breakfast: Bananas Foster French Toast ~ Battered French Bread, Sliced Bananas, Tahitian Vanilla Bean Ice Cream, and Toasted Walnuts with Foster Sauce ~ $11.50
> 
> (Bananas Foster is a dessert made from bananas and vanilla ice cream, with the sauce made from butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, dark rum, and banana liqueur.)
> 
> John’s breakfast: Eggs Stella ~ Cornmeal-Crusted Soft-Shell Crab, Poached Eggs, Canadian Bacon and Creole Hollandaise on Toasted English Muffin ~ $19.00
> 
> Click Menu at the [Stanley webpage](http://stanleyrestaurant.com/) for more deliciousness.
> 
> Vid of [Verti Marte's All That Jazz](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIk4YhVjUc4) *sigh*


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock tries to remain collected as John looks up at him, grinning and stuffing the bottle of Dr. Tichenor’s into his back pocket. Obviously he is failing. John’s grin is replaced with questioning concern as he reaches for Sherlock’s hand and takes the bandana, still damp with the peppermint antiseptic.

“All right? We don’t have to go to the room. We can go to that delivery shop, or just walk around…”

Sherlock huffs, somewhere between exasperated and frustrated. “No. I want. The room. Yes.” And he stalks in that direction.

“Wait, wait. Sherlock. What?” John reaches forward and takes Sherlock’s hand, tugging lightly and pulling Sherlock back, the cool, minty cloth warming slightly between their hands.

“There are so many things, John. So many things I want to do, rattling around," he gestures wildly at his head, "bouncing off each other. I want to lay you out like a buffet and -”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” John smiles and steps closer; Sherlock can feel the heat of his chest and belly and it makes his fingers itch. “We’ll go back to the room, we’ll get undressed, you’ll lay me out like a buffet and do what you like.”

“How do you know you’ll like what I like?”

“Sherlock. I trust that you read me like a book. You’ll probably know before I do if I'm not enjoying something, but look. We haven’t had any problems so far, have we?” He watches Sherlock shake his head slowly, considering, and then emphatically no. “So, as much as you can, don’t think about it. Just do what comes naturally.” He stifles a giggle at Sherlock’s split-second pout and instead nods once, encouragingly.

“That’s just it, John.” Sherlock lowers his head to speak into John’s ear. “I can’t think. When your hands are on me, your mouth, your teeth…”

John laughs through a groan. “No mouth, then. Laid out like a buffet, I’ll keep my hands to myself. You feel free to keep up the dirty talk. In fact, feel free to narrate the whole thing.”

Sherlock hums and takes a step back to observe. John is relaxed, open, confident, and tumescent enough from this brief contact that the outline of his cock is visible through his jeans. He bites his bottom lip and nods. “Okay, yes.” He takes the minty bandana from John’s hand and drapes it around the back of his neck.

John is chuckling, nudging Sherlock toward their hotel with his shoulder. “You’d think you’ve never done this before.”

“Make love to the man I love?” Sherlock says loftily. “Can’t say that I have.”

 

~~

 

Sherlock’s eyes are tracking over John as they walk up the stairs, mapping out the places he wants to touch, taste, smell. He swallows the saliva pooling under his tongue.

John opens the door wide and walks into the room, kicks off his shoes and leans against the table to pull off his socks. He tugs the soft brown tee over his head and drops it over the back of the chair. Sherlock is mesmerized by the play of muscles across John's back, the glimmer of scars, the faded entry wound from the bullet that sent him home. Sherlock calls up the moment he first laid eyes on John in the lab at Barts, a lifetime ago. Two. He overlays this image with John in another of his awful check shirts, reading cases out of their inbox before the wedding, when Mary urged Sherlock to 'run him.' He layers over those with John looking through Mycroft's casefile on Louise, bouncing with excitement. He smiles, remembering.

_“John, no.”_

_“Sherlock, yes! All-expenses-paid trip to New Orleans? Yes! I’m going online right now and finding a hotel.”_

_“Fine. But I don’t want one of those sterile chain hotels. Find something with character.” Sherlock flips through the pages of the casefile. “The Marigny neighbourhood is centrally located between the locations Mycroft has indicated.”_

_“Give me back the packet. I’ll cross reference the addresses so we find something that’s walking distance. Parking there is as bad as here.”_

John comes out of the kitchenette, carrying two pint glasses of water, catching Sherlock looking ridiculously sweet. “What are you thinking about?”

“You. Your determined face, pecking out ‘Marigny Hotels New Orleans’ and opening 89 tabs.”  

John chuckles and tips his head toward the bedroom. “You want…”

Sherlock’s long strides have him in front of John in a blink. “Yes.”

John grins. “Okay then.” He hands Sherlock the water glasses and takes hold of the bandana still draped around Sherlock’s neck, drawing him down for a soft kiss. “Buffet time.”

 

~~

 

John stretches out on the bed, arching and wriggling in, before relaxing back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "All right? My hands to myself, laid out like a buffet.” He grins up at Sherlock, who is staring down with an intent look on his face. “Feel free to narrate the whole thing.”

“You like my voice.” Sherlock smirks as he crawls onto the bed, one knee between John's spread thighs.

“Of course I do, you ridiculous nutter," John says fondly.

Sherlock crouches over him, marvelling at how relaxed John is. He could be waiting for tea, something ordinary, instead of lying there allowing Sherlock free rein with his body. Sherlock takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, trying to regain in control of his bodily reactions: his increased heart rate, his jumping cock. He runs his nose up the line of John's jaw, murmuring into his ear, “I could do anything. You'd let me do anything.”

John hears the question in his statement and cups Sherlock's face in his hands. “I have limits, but I'm not giving you a checklist. You're brilliant, and I doubt you're about to break out the knives or start pissing on me.”

Sherlock rears back, “No. That was not my intent.”

John hums, “Good then.” Soft kiss on his cheek. “Just, explore.” Soft kiss on his lips. “Do what comes naturally,” and he settles back, lacing his hands behind his head again.

Sherlock looks down at him for approximately three seconds, and then he stretches out and runs his nose from John's temple to the crown of his head. He breathes deeply, filing away the smells that had accumulated: hint of cigarettes from the bar, coffee, citrus from where he ran his fingers through his hair after handling the oranges, sweetness, and unwashed John. He takes in as many textures and smells as he can, realising after a moment that the rumbling purr he hears is coming from his own chest. John said to explore, but he can't possibly be getting as much satisfaction from this as Sherlock. Can he? He props himself on his elbows, assessing the man laid out before him. John's body is still, not moving in a sinuous rhythm like Sherlock's, but his cock is full: his foreskin is retracted, revealing his glans, plump and shining. His eyes are closed, lips curled in a soft smile. “Go on.”

Feeling empowered, and yet somehow calmed, by his obvious effect on John, he threads his long fingers into John's short hair, feeling the contours of his skull, the divots and dents of an active life. He finds it rather soothing but is surprised to feel John relaxing into the touch.

“You like this,” Sherlock murmurs.

“You do, too.”

Sherlock hums and tries out gentle tugs but is unable to get a satisfying grip and moves to trace his fingertips across John’s now unfurrowed brow. He noses across John's eyebrows and then back across his eyelashes. He uses his face as much as his hands to absorb the textures and scents of John's skin, delighting in the bristle of John's unshaven face.

Dragging his cheek from one side to the other their lips graze and Sherlock feels John smiling. “So, it's just the moustache you don't like, then?”

Sherlock makes a small noise of consideration. “It could have been better.” Rasping his thumbs across John's upper lip, he continues, “It didn't fit your face.” He shifts on his knees and murmurs against John's lips, “We can try again if you like.”

John snorts. “You like. I'll just let it grow until you are ready to shave me. We're on holiday, I don't care how ridiculous I look.”

Sherlock brushes his lips across John's, more a caress than a kiss. “You never care how ridiculous you look.”

“Hey now!” John chuckles, spreads his arms and shrugs. “We can't all look like we stepped out of GQ magazine.”

“I like the way you look,” Sherlock whispers into John's neck. “And smell, and feel. I like the sounds you make, when I touch you.” He draws back a bit, considering. “I'm glad I didn't know. I don't know how I'm going to keep a straight face next time we are in Angelo's now that I know the sounds you make in bed.”

“You're not so silent yourself, you know. Giant cat, scenting me and purring.”

Sherlock tries to hide his grin, ducking his head as he noses into John's armpit. “You like this, you did it to me.”

John squirms a bit, giggling. “Yes, I love your ginger armpits. You have a cowlick, you know. One great curl, right here-” and he reaches up under Sherlock's arm, petting softly.

“Hands.” Sherlock says sternly. Tries to say sternly, but he is also giggling when John drops his hand back to the bed. Sherlock presses his lips to the jumping pulse of John's neck, tasting it with small licks of his tongue. Sherlock noses the path from John's armpit to the crook of his neck, brushing his lips against John's skin, breathing in deep inhales and then out in short puffs.

"What do I smell like, then? Or are you tasting?"

"Mmmm..." Sherlock hums his smile into the skin of John's neck. "Spicy, salty. Sweet, too. And sex. The sweet, though..." another sniff and a dainty lick.

“That has to be transference. From your Bananas Foster."

“Transference! Of course!” Sherlock sits up, looking a little startled. “Although it might also be the Theory of Reflexivity.”

“What? Oh." John easily makes the connection. "The things I do to you in bed would be the things I want in bed?” John looks up at a blinking Sherlock, practically reboot mode. “A bit. A good bit, actually. Yeah.” John rubs his hands up and down Sherlock's arms, as much to snap him out of it as to comfort. “Sherlock, you have... um.”

“I said I'd never made love to the man I love, John. I haven't done,” he waves his hand between them, “ _this_ before. I have experimented. I found the whole experience lacking and discontinued the experiment.”

“Experiment.”

“What else would you call it? I experimented, tried to understand the motivations behind crimes of passion, but the tendency in my partners to confuse the rush of sex chemicals in the brain with actual attraction -- or worse, affection -- was off-putting to say the least.” He huffs out an annoyed breath. “Confusing the body’s evolutionary pair-bonding chemical reactions with love is ridiculous. And then disentangling myself from my experimental partners at university was loud, often a violent or embarrassing scene.”

“Did someone throw a pot at your head, love?” John asks softly, running his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

“Yes. Now leave it.” Sherlock plants his nose in John's belly button, breathing deeply and taking underbite nips of John's belly, this soft flesh over the solid core of the man, deceptive padding, delicious. Intoxicating. As addictive as any drug. He holds on to John's hips, grinning against his skin and dodging thrashing legs, sucking kisses in between bites. John isn't as ticklish as Sherlock, but it is definitely enjoyable. Sherlock files this data away, next to the audio of John's huffing laughter and panting groans, and the sensation of John's hands, fisted into Sherlock’s hair. “I like that, your hands can stay there,” Sherlock rumbles into John's hipbone, before rasping his cheek up John's side.

John slowly settles, fingers alternately petting and tugging Sherlock's curls. He's so caught up in his thoughts he doesn't even flinch when Sherlock passes over his scarred shoulder with his cheek. He looks down and sees Sherlock examining it with his eyes, tracing the whole of it gently with his fingertips, closing in to taste it, assessing the textures with his tongue.

Sherlock continues down John's chest, mapping the whole of John's torso with his mouth and hands, adding to his data set, filing away hair patterns, muscle tone, the elasticity and colours of his skin: pale honey, visually appealing next to Sherlock's cream. He listens to John's heart, virtually in sync with Sherlock's own, elevated with exertion and passion. Sherlock rests his ear against John's burbling abdomen, considering what he wants to do next. If he's done it before, he's deleted it. Failed experiments with only a summary left in his Mind Palace to prove they were conducted. He traces the length of John's erection with his nose, inhaling John's musky flavour, and sweeps his tongue cautiously over the tip, processing the unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant, bitter tang of pre-ejaculate, as well as John’s shuddering gasps. Initial foray successful, he puts a pin in John's positive reactions with a mental note to return when he has finished cataloguing.

He turns and traces his fingers down to John's feet, remembering how pleasurable John's teeth felt just there, smiling at John's twitch. He cups the heel with his palm and bends to trail his lips over John's ankle, across the top of his foot, kisses the tops of his toes, smiles darkly as they curl. Sherlock wraps his fingers around John's ankles and drags his hands upwards, noting the much dented shin bones. He shifts and leans across to bite at the soft spot behind John's knee, smiling at John's groan as he tips his knee out to give Sherlock room.

He's beginning to suspect that his data gathering isn't that far from worship, and that's fine.

Sherlock lightly scrapes his fingernails up John’s thighs, then traces the creases of his groin. John startles when Sherlock says, "Turn." John looks over his shoulder as he rolls onto his front, adjusting his cock beneath him and spreading his thighs apart. Sherlock cups his palm over John's bum, lips quirking at the rut and wriggle as John settles in and presses back.

Sherlock traces his fingertips from John's thighs to his calves, then calves to feet, back up to John's thighs and across his backside, creating a file marked Do Not Delete that contains the varying textures of hair on John's body as well as the visual image of individual areas rising in _cutis anserina_. He realises he is passively recording his own body's reactions, his response to John's responses. His skin has started to flush, sweat prickling in the small of his back, under his arms, his nipples taut peaks. His erection arches up toward his belly, marked with daubs of pre-ejaculate, a delicate string of it connecting his half-exposed glans to the dark copper hair under his navel.  He trails his fingers up John's back to his shoulders and down his arms. John is breathing deeply, relaxing into Sherlock's touch even as he lightly ruts into the sheets. Envious of the friction, Sherlock's eyes track greedily across John's back, following the curve of his spine, his bum, his legs, and giving only the barest thought to logistics or statistics on transmission of bacteria orally, he shifts so he can cup his hand to the back of John's knee, nudges up as he moves down.

“What…” John barely chokes out before Sherlock dips down and nuzzles into the humid space between John's legs. “Oh, God. Are you…”

“Mmm.” Sherlock hums into John's skin, his hair tickling John’s thighs as he slides his hands up to grip and tilt him into place.

Sherlock grins at John's squirming and the panting moans in reaction to the wet slide of his mouth down to John's perineum and balls then back. Sherlock laps across John's furled anus in broad, soft swipes. John groans and reaches up to grip the headboard, bracing himself as he arches his hips up to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock swallows, licks across again, losing himself in the sensation of John fluttering beneath his tongue, the exquisite pressure on his cock trapped between the bed and his belly, writhes into it, hips thrusting to match John's against his mouth.

Sherlock groans into John's flesh, both at the arousal coursing through his body and the noises John is making. They are fascinating and delightfully unexpected. Beyond arousing. When Sherlock had allowed himself to think about it, he had imagined John a stoic lover, expressing his enjoyment in panting huffs and grunts, only crying out at the end, if then. He had been very, very wrong. John's easy praise carries over into intimacy, his murmured ‘fantastic’ and ‘brilliant’ and 'so good, Sherlock' is interspersed with the huffs and grunts that Sherlock expected, as well as groans and growls that Sherlock can feel through every point of contact. He groans again acknowledging that this is beyond transference and reflexivity, this is proof of mirror neurons. The involuntary neural mechanism responding not just to John’s reaction, but also to the _feeling_ behind those reactions.

Sherlock wipes his mouth on the backs of John’s thighs and shifts over to tip John back and nuzzle at his hipbone. John murmurs his praise between gasps,  the head of his cock bumping against Sherlock’s throat, his jaw.

Sherlock leans on an elbow as he licks up John’s shaft, tasting the bitter pre-ejaculate again, and considers how quickly he can lay in a stockpile of fruit and juices. He maneuvers himself so he can slowly descend, tongue swirling in lazy circles until John’s corona nudges his soft palate. He bobs his head once, then grasps John loosely at the base as he draws back up, lips in a tight seal.

John's hands are petting his hair as he whispers ‘So good, so good,’ reflexively thrusting up into Sherlock’s mouth. Fellatio is fine, irrumatio is not, and Sherlock places his hands on John’s hips to hold him in place. Sherlock settles in and uses his mouth to show John how he likes it. Really, it's astounding. Giving pleasure, taking pleasure, their bodies mirroring each other's arousal. Sherlock understands why he hadn’t found much enjoyment in sex. There was no emotional connection to his experimental partners. This, with John, is a symphony of sensations and brain chemistry, but it couldn’t exist for him without love.

As gratifying as it is to feel John enjoying what Sherlock finds enjoyable, Sherlock also wants to know specifically what pleases John. He starts to vary his technique -- paying attention to John’s still shifting hips, his groans, his panting breaths -- as he changes from long, slow, open-mouthed kissing John's whole shaft to short, sharp sucks at the corona, using his hand to match the rhythm.

He’s worshiping at the altar of John. Atheist he may be, but he finds this comforting. There is nowhere he would rather be, nothing else he would rather be doing. He switches to strong, heavy pulls on John’s erection, cupping John’s testicles in one hand, keeping the other flat on John’s belly, and groans as John's hands scrabble in sable curls.

He huffs at himself because his jaw is already starting to ache. Pulling off with a wet pop, he runs his swollen lips around the glans, his hand following John’s thrusts. Feeling John’s testicles drawing up, he tongues his frenulum and hums encouragement, dropping down for another deep suck.

‘I…’ John starts. “Sherlock. I’m-” He tries to pull Sherlock up but Sherlock isn’t having it. John's heels dig into the mattress as he thrusts up and clutches at Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock sucks, fast and dirty, and grips John’s testicles. John grinds his head into the pillow and gasps at the ceiling, his stomach muscles jump and tighten and his hips jolt as he starts to come.

John is crying out inarticulate parts of words, riding out his orgasm as Sherlock keeps him pinned between his mouth and hands. Sherlock swallows around him with each surge, shuddering slightly at the taste of zinc, or is it baking soda? Hydrogen peroxide, yes, that. He wants to analyse the component parts as much as he wants to put the Dr. Tichenor’s to use and rid his mouth of this taste, but there is no denying the triumphant rush he feels, sex chemicals surging from his brain into his bloodstream, knowing he brought John to this state. _I did this._

John gusts out a sigh and Sherlock lets his penis slide free, nuzzling up John's boneless body, long arching sweeps of his nose, hip to sternum, sternum to belly button, belly button to chest. Sherlock nestles into John's armpit, nosing his neck and behind his ear while John pants at the ceiling.

Sherlock writhes and settles against John, wrapping his arm across John’s chest, luxuriant bliss zinging through his body as he ruts against John's firm thigh. He can focus on it now, the want, the need for his own release.

John tugs Sherlock to sprawl half over him, his face tucked into John’s throat, while John hugs him tightly, rocking into Sherlock’s unselfconscious rutting. Sherlock clings to him, pushing his face against John’s skin, inhaling John’s familiar scent, and he can’t think of anything at all other than how good it feels to be held, and hold John's body against his own. Learning John's body and bring it to release was gratifyingly satisfying, but it's his turn now. He joyfully gives himself over to indulging himself in John's compact form.

John tips Sherlock's head to his, both hands wound in the curls, and nuzzles at that swollen mouth, tasting himself on Sherlock's breath. He licks in, and Sherlock kisses him back mindlessly, growling and writhing on top of John, thrusting into the crease of his groin, running on pure instinct.

John keeps one hand in Sherlock’s hair and tips him over so they are lying on their sides, takes Sherlock’s hand and wraps it around both of their cocks, his thrusts matching Sherlock’s instinctive rhythm. He is half-hard and replete:  he won’t come again, but he hisses, overstimulated and thrilling with it. Their sweat and pre-ejaculate makes the uneven slide of their cocks through Sherlock’s fist slick and smooth. Sherlock's eyes are locked on his, wide and amazed.

"That's it," John breathes into Sherlock’s mouth. "Let go, beautiful. Show me.” He tugs on Sherlock’s hair, sucking at his throat, feeling Sherlock’s keen through his lips and his chest. He grinds against Sherlock, who is stroking quick and hard. "So fucking gorgeous," he grits out through bared teeth. "You feel fantastic. Amazing."

Sherlock’s keen has shifted to panting whispers of "JohnJohnJohnJohn." He’s so close, so beautifully close, right here on the very edge, and John wants nothing more than to tip him over into bliss.

John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s curls and wraps his other arm around Sherlock, pulling him over, landing on his back with Sherlock sprawled between his legs. Sherlock gasps in surprise and moves to brace his hands on either side of John’s shoulders, looking down their bodies, watching with fascination as John resumes their rhythm, fisting Sherlock’s cock, his hips rocking and guiding.  

John lets go of Sherlock’s hair and trails that hand down to the cleft of Sherlock's arse. "Sherlock," he grits out, making those mercurial eyes snap up to his. "Come on. Come for me, love."

He watches Sherlock's face greedily. Sherlock is flushed down his neck and chest, eyes heavy lidded and dark with passion, ecstasy stuttering across his face with startling rapidity. His perfect mouth forms a gasping ‘Oh’ and then Sherlock is spilling into John's hand, crying out John's name as his orgasm shakes him.

John holds him, rocking and crooning endearments as Sherlock rides out his aftershocks, stroking him from sweaty curls to curved bum. "Gorgeous. Beautiful. Perfect." He glances to the bedside table, where they put the bandana, glasses of water, and the bottle of Dr. Tichenor’s. John murmurs into Sherlock’s shoulder, “Hang on, love. Gimme a sec.” Tipping Sherlock over onto his side, John sits up a bit and reaches for a glass of water, taking a few gulping swallows he holds the glass to Sherlock's lips, smiling at Sherlock's swish and efficient swallow. He sets the glass down and reaches for the bandana. Dipping it into the other glass, he then tips the antiseptic onto the cloth. Swiping it up his own chest to test, his brow arches in surprise at the instantaneous reaction.  His nipples still tight and tingling, he wipes at Sherlock’s chest and around the back of his neck.

“Oh, mmmmmmmmm. That's nice,” Sherlock slurs.

John dips the cloth into the water again and nudges Sherlock’s cock out of the way so he can safely wipe at the mess of ejaculate on his belly.

“How’s that? I don’t want to get it on your prick.”

Sherlock snorts. “It’s fine. My prick is fine. Put it on my bollocks?”

“Ha. You sure?” John asks, dunking the bandana into the water glass, rinsing it as best he can.

“Yesss. Please.”

“All right,” John replies dubiously, but he tidies up Sherlock’s sack and thighs, giggling as Sherlock rolls forward, knee up, the same position he had John in when he was rimming. John swipes the cloth up Sherlock’s crack, folds the cloth and continues up Sherlock’s back, then down his legs, and brushes the minty bandana against the soles of his feet for good measure. Happiness flooding through him as he watches Sherlock’s toes stretch and curl. “Feels good, I take it?”

“Oh, yesss. Mmmm.” Sherlock wiggles himself against the sheets, a sine curve of bliss. “Thank you, John.”

“At least you’re saying thank you.”

“I feel like an overindulged odalisque.” Sherlock sighs through a smile.  

John dips the cloth into the water glass again, “As you should. You’re incredible, you know.” The praise is soft, carrying the smile John is wearing as he says the words.  

“Yes. Now come back down here and kiss me.” Sherlock's voice is a deep, purring rumble that John feels all the way to his toes. He manhandles Sherlock’s bonelessness so they are lying chest to chest, dropping soft, unhurried kisses across his eyes, cheeks, mouth. John settles into Sherlock's arms, legs entwined.

He starts to doze and jolts a bit. “Shower,” he mumbles, nudging Sherlock.

“Later. We have time.” Sherlock brushes soft kisses against John's brow, cuddling him close. Sweat be damned.

John smiles, tightening his arm over Sherlock's waist and relaxing as Sherlock curls around him, hooking one leg over John's ankles to pin him comfortably in place.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [akuma_river](http://archiveofourown.org/users/akuma_river/pseuds/akuma_river), whose comments on chapter 3 generated the flashback of John Googling 'Marigny Hotels New Orleans' and opening 89 tabs. Thanks also to [chucksauce](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/profile), whose insightful comments led to 1k+ more descriptive smutty words. This chapter is twice as hot because of her. (go on, clickit, read her things!)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters 1-4 were written in (and sat on since) January. I figure the only thing that is going to motivate my ass to finish it is if I KNOW it is out here, swinging in the breeze, incomplete, with all y'all knowing my choke point. Which was the porn. 3 months to get ch 5 posted! Thanks to everyone for their encouragement, it never would have happened without you. 8 month delay on chapter 7 can be laid at the feet of depression, my still damp MLIS, and the subsequent job hunt. So, so sorry. But yeah, please. Prod me if I look like I have dropped off the face of the Earth, again?


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